


Gift Horses

by heartratemonitor



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Blindfolds, Bribery, Chekov's kalimba, Coercion, Dysfunctional Gym Leader Polycule, Inappropriate Attempts to Repair Spikemuth, Light Bondage, Multi, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Protective Siblings, Raihan has two hands, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Suits, Texting, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartratemonitor/pseuds/heartratemonitor
Summary: Chairman Rose comes bearing bribes. Piers mulls over his options.
Relationships: Chairman Rose/Piers, Leon/Piers/Raihan endgame, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Oleana/Piers, Raihan/Leon, piers/raihan
Comments: 205
Kudos: 574





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with a package.

A package comes to his doorstop, unexpected. It is sturdy and discreet; roughly the rectangular shape of holiday gift boxes at retail stores for an ugly sweater, or some other unwanted clothing gift. His name and address mark the uniform gray surface with red ornamental script. No sender- odd. Piers deliberates. It is too soon for holiday obligations, and his birthday is months away. Casual fanmail seems slim- it is far too attractive a box.

He brings it inside, gingerly places it on the bed, and cuts the flaps away with a pocket knife. The board gives to red packing tissue with the overwhelming scent of Cherubi fruit- natural dye, perhaps? Piers crushes the sheets, revolted by its excess. Underneath is an unmarked letter, and the faint sheen of expensive fabric.

He empties the contents. Pants, jacket, white button down shirt. An educated guess would leave him to assume that the whole ensemble costs more than his hovel of an apartment. A small black satchel falls from the set and rolls to the tip of his boots. Piers debates crushing it with his heel, but he collects it instead, undoing the drawstring to find a dark red tie. Fairy type silk, most likely.

It all seems about his size. He doesn’t know what to do with this information, but it at least narrows things down. The letter peeks from underneath the mound of clothing, and upon opening, it confirms all suspicions.

How magnanimous of Rose to offer him attire to a formal event he intended to skip out on. It would be doubly impolite to refuse. Well, at least there’s free booze. That gives him a week to collect himself; calm down enough to swallow his pride. Is the chairman going to chastise him on not acquiescing to moving the gym, all while Piers is wearing his clothes?

He’s got half a mind to waltz to the charity event in the nude. It’s an entertaining picture, but Raihan interrupts him with a text. Buzzkill. Said buzzkill, however, is offering to pay for the Corvicab, and Piers can’t deny free food or the chance to distract himself. He pins bills on the fridge for Marnie to order takeout, and texts Raihan an ETA.

Raihan is his typical chatty on the ride there- _something something ‘Gram metrics something something Leon pain in the ass,_ fading to a familiar noise and litany of complaints. Piers is there to half listen, and provide a distracting lay, while Raihan pretends he’s fucking Leon. Raihan is there to offer him a meal afterwards, and occasionally say something useful about battle strategy. Both would agree, privately, that their arrangement is one of mutual convenience, smoothed out by familiarity and relative lack of spite.

Both also know that as soon as Raihan gets over his complex, or whatever it is holding him back from getting what he actually wants, that these meetings would peter out over time. Piers is willing to enjoy it while it lasts. It is significantly less enjoyable now, however, that it has started to rain as soon as the cab lands, and Piers lacks an umbrella. The torrent makes quick work of the product on his hair as he bolts to the front steps. Wonderful. One hour of daily maintenance in the trash.

Raihan buzzes him to his floor, and raises a brow at the drowned animal look, followed immediately by a familiar series of Rotom flashes. Piers swats the damn thing away, but is grateful that his host has at least the courtesy to immediately provide a towel. He shrugs his wet jacket onto the coat rack and promptly peels off his clothes, then deposits himself onto the couch. Raihan tosses him a blanket, and sets off to the kitchen to make tea.

“Roseli? Ganlon blend? Matcha?”

“’M’not picky.”

“Your hair looks nice like that, by the way.” A bit too sincere. Oh dear.

Piers snorts. The strands hang heavy with water, like a curtain over his bare shoulders. “I look like I crawled out of a well.”

“Come to shame mankind? On trend of you,” Raihan quips, handing him a hot cup minutes later. Roseli, with cream and sugar. Piers is not sure if this is mockery or consideration, but he downs it anyway after muttering a thank you. A strong grip takes hold of his free wrist, brought to meet lips and a familiar scratch of teeth.

“You look tired, Piers,” the man says, hesitating.

“I always look tired,” he counters, untangling himself from the blanket to kneel down between Raihan’s knees. It’s familiar, these motions. The rote borders on comforting, but lately it tends to deviate from script, which Piers finds far from welcoming, despite its intended effect.

“More than usual,” Raihan replies with that irritating concern, but is promptly silenced once Piers puts his mouth to work.

_Good. Shut up._

They’ve been around the block of each other’s bodies long enough to know exactly what makes the other squirm. Sex only has so many variables before more adventurous people resort to weird shit like plastic wrap mummification- either that or you actually have to like the person enough to eat the same rotating set of meals every day. Piers knows he’s not the latter, and he’s fine with it as long as there is consistency.

Raihan plants fingers firmly against his scalp and growls to hold him in place while he thrusts with increasing viciousness. That is consistency. It is not that the man is an impolite person, but to be treated like something precious almost reads as condescending, and right now he’s treading the line between courtesy and condescending.

Piers grips his thighs for leverage, while Raihan loosens his own and cards fondly through his hair. The face he’s making: half admiration and half hunger- Piers does not know what to think of this face, though it is a common enough occurrence. He closes his eyes instead, and Raihan makes a pleased sound, abruptly pulling away.

It’s enough time to catch his breath. And for a kiss, apparently, which he gladly meets, while leaving angry red tracks on Raihan’s back with nails he really ought to have cut two days ago. He’s shoved against the wall in retaliation, and Piers laughs despite getting the wind knocked out of him.

“Try harder, champ,” he tests, like throwing pebbles against a glass door. “No wonder you always lose to Leon.”

 _You overthink things,_ Marnie’s voice rings in his head as Piers finds himself yanked by the back of his neck and draped over the couch armrest. Raihan holds his waist none too gently as he enters. It hurts at first, even though he’s prepared himself before coming here. _Consistency,_ Piers ruminates, burying his face in the fabric as he grits his teeth at the burn and grind. He reaches desperately for his neglected erection, but Raihan denies him, pinning both wrists behind his back while setting the pace.

It’s good. It almost always is. Raihan leans down to tease the shell of his ear, working an ambling path of bites down his neck and shoulder. Piers slackens like a satchel emptied of contents, and slowly finds himself floating away, unflattering noises crushed in the back of his mouth.

Raihan slows and kisses a flowering bruise by his shoulder. This is not consistency, but Piers comes anyway. He got what he came here for. Everything else is icing. Raihan follows afterwards, and Piers does not entirely recall when he’s been moved to a reclining position on the couch, nor is he inclined to care overmuch. His head is ringing. Raihan is already cooking dinner.

“Opinion on Slowpoke tail?”

“No opinion.”

“I’ll get you an ice pack.”

“Much obliged.”

Piers digs in his pile of wet clothes for his phone. The messages are a usual collection of white noise, and an email from Rose. He’ll read that later. Tomorrow or never, ideally. There’s a text from Marnie, stating she left the money on the fridge and made curry from leftovers. He tells her to keep it.

Slowpoke tail smells surprisingly decent. Piers drapes the blanket over himself and walks to the kitchen, taking a seat by the little table. Raihan cooks some sort of stew in boxers and little else. His guest watches, eyes appreciatively spanning the dips and curves of muscle and strength. To this day, he still doesn’t understand why Raihan is so keen on fucking shit under his boot.

 _I am a placeholder,_ Piers reminds himself. _I am a placeholder,_ _but a_ _convenient one._

“Wicked robes, your majesty,” Raihan jabs with a guileless smile, and hands him an ice pack for his bruises.

“King of the trash heap,” Piers says flatly. He holds the pack over his left wrist, experimentally flexing his fingers. A hand closes the distance to cup his cheek.

“You sure you’re alright? Did I rough you up too much?”

“Calm down,” Piers replies, but Raihan is already hovering to examine his handiwork. None of the bites were harsh enough to break skin, and the bruises would easily heal. Piers decides to humor him if it assuages his guilt, holding still as Raihan ghosts over the marks. He kisses the back of his hand, and Piers rolls his eyes.

“It’s not you, Raihan. Just in a bit of a pickle, is all.”

A lot of pickles. Ten pickles, at least.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

Both drop the topic. The Rotom snaps photos of the steaming pot, likely to be doused in flattering filters. Piers has browsed Raihan’s social media accounts plenty enough; the snap will inevitably be followed by fawning compliments and at least two marriage proposals. What do they call it these days? _Husband material?_

At the end of the day, however, Piers is the one who gets to eat it. He plays that thought in his mind as he braces himself to open Rose’s email, which is a delicately worded invitation to dine at that one overpriced restaurant near Nessa’s gym. Likely to talk about dynamaxing again, or potentially relegating Spikemuth to minor league out of pettiness. _Maybe he wants his dick polished,_ Piers ruminates darkly, and he knows that he’s not above obliging if it gets Rose to leave him alone.

It is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. He’s even rush delivering another set of clothes, because naturally Piers looks like what dragged in the cat and the chairman is gracious enough to take that into consideration. Who is he to argue? Some find that sort of thing appealing. His eyes wander to Raihan’s back, as though to punctuate the thought.

“Checking the goods?” the man teases. He flexes his arms. It’s obnoxious, quite frankly, but Piers just smiles because he’s inoculated enough to find this endearing, just as Raihan is inoculated enough to find him attractive. Familiarity breeds delusion. Enough exposure and pasty skin becomes ivory _,_ and an unflatteringly low BMI can pass off as delicate.

Piers is no stranger to playing into delusions, though if he were to hazard a guess, Raihan seems like he’s genuinely charming. He’s certain to make Leon very happy, once the bastard gets over the initial hurdle of asking for his hand in the first place.

He’ll raze that bridge once they get to it. For now, there’s a plate of slowpoke tail curry to work through, and a Rotom to shove off his face.

* * *

Marnie gets the second package in the morning, on her way out the door. She asks no questions, quick to read her brother’s discomfort. _Like a little adult already,_ Piers thinks, to compensate for his incompetence. She deserves better, but right now all he can offer is a hug goodbye and a boilerplate warning to stay safe.

He tears the box open in the living room. There’s fitted black slacks, a white blazer, and a red turtleneck. The fabric is smooth and soft to the touch, and it makes it easier to not entirely loathe putting it on. A pair of thin, black suspenders waits in the front pocket of the trousers, which Piers considers omitting, because it is the only thing in the ensemble that suits his aesthetic and he is nothing if not willing to spit in Rose’s hospitality in a manner that can be interpreted as innocuous.

He puts it on with the rest, and inspects himself in the full body bathroom mirror. It looks like a costume that Cinderella would lose at midnight; flattering in a way that alarms him. Hulbury gets enough traffic to render him recognizable in a crowd, wearing a glamour with the Chairman’s colors. Blood drains from his face. He pulls his hair back into a thick, low braid, and shakily digs through his drawers for a pair of sunglasses. It’s about as convincing a disguise as Rose’s hideous tracksuit and ugly dad shorts.

They’ll match, then. Great. He straps pokeballs on the suspenders as a placebo contingency, and hails a cab. There’s enough time to visit Nessa and loiter by the tented vendors before the meeting, and hopefully it’s enough to smooth his nerves by then. He snaps a selfie to send to Raihan on the ride there, because he may as well. The clothes did nothing wrong.

**Raihan:** win the lotto, handsome? you look good enough to eat

 **Piers:** its a rental

 **Raihan:** hot date? i’m jealous. who’s the lucky suitor?

 **Piers:** rose

 **Raihan:** ah

 **Raihan:** milk him for all he’s worth, treat yourself

_read 11:15am_

Nessa is by the lighthouse when he arrives, tossing stones into the sea. They greet each other in an easy hug, and fall into comfortable, distant chatter. The challenger event is four months away, and Piers gushes about Marnie’s progress. Nessa was the one to provide the letter as a favor, to minimize accusations of favoritism. Not that it matters in an official capacity, other than some peace of mind that his friend is happy to provide.

“You look good,” Nessa says, with a smile that errs on cautious optimism. “You should come work for me.”

“In your gym?” Piers jokes, but he knows it’s the other job. The pants are doing wonders for his legs, after all. He’ll spare Nessa the self-depreciating comments; he owes it to not be annoying.

“You clean up well,” she answers simply, and hands him her limited edition league card with the necessary contact information.

“I need to work on my posture,” he says with an anxious laugh.

“You do,” she agrees, and Piers visibly deflates for comedic effect. “But you’ll manage. Think about it.”

They grab lunch outside, and Piers is more than happy to offer his services as a glorified bag holder while Nessa browses some stands. He doesn’t understand her esoteric process when it comes to picking articles of clothing, because she looks good in anything. Too frilly. Too short. Too long. The wrong shade of blue.

There must be some science to it, Piers deduces, if Rose’s picks are any indication. He’s standing a little taller, considering the circumstances. Nessa spins in a seafoam gown, and the smile in his lips is effortless, even when she decides to return it to the rack. Hopefully the morale boost lasts well into the evening. He’s going to need it.

They find Rose in the distance on the way to Nessa’s home, already amassing an admiring crowd at his arrival. Piers helps Nessa with her bags. She kisses him goodbye, soft and fleeting on the cheek.

“Good luck,” she whispers. He swallows her concern.

It’s still early, and there’s thirty minutes until they need to officially meet at the seafood restaurant, but Oleana catches him with her clever eyes and gestures for him to follow. Piers obeys wordlessly and weaves through the growing throng; he’s not stupid enough to dally. Chairman Rose waits by a bench across the street, idly browsing his phone in full suit and tie. Oleana pauses, as though to survey quality. She straightens the collar of his turtleneck without so much as asking. Piers thins his lips into an uncomfortable line.

“Er,” he starts, eloquent as always.

“Wear your hair like that when he calls for you,” she states.

This is likely the closest she’ll get to a compliment. They cross the street. It’s constricting under the fabric, a sizable lump forming in his throat, but he dares not readjust the collar. Oleana is a thin, folded blade as she walks, and Piers cannot help but notice that their attire matches, made glaringly obvious as they flank either side of Rose, like strange, mismatched reflections, or crossing shadows in harsh light.

“Good of you to come, Piers,” Rose says with an effortless smile. “You clean up well.”

“Thank you,” he manages. Nessa made the same compliment verbatim, but out of Rose’s mouth is an implication that he is usually dirty otherwise.

Rose rises from the bench, appraising. “You won’t mind parting with the sunglasses overmuch, would you?”

It’s not a suggestion, but it’s phrased as much. Piers pockets them with a shrug. _When he calls for you_ \- it rings like warning sirens. He didn’t peg Rose as someone with awful taste. Piers distracts himself; surveys Oleana as he is similarly surveyed. He’s read in casual online trivia that her first pokemon was a Trubbish, and it clicks like a square peg forcibly hammered into a round hole.

_Well._

“Any preference when it comes to wine?” Rose asks, parting the crowd like a benevolent god. The restaurant is emptied of diners.

“Sweet,” Piers says, his throat dry.

Oleana doesn’t sit down. He wants to ask her to sit down, but it’s not his place.

At least the food is good. Rose goes into a polite diatribe at how disappointed he is that Piers doesn’t want to move the gym, and Piers artfully rearranges the fish bones in his plate. _Abstract Expressionism,_ Raihan says in his head. _Romanticism,_ Nessa follows.

“I understand that your city is struggling,” Rose says, and Piers knows that he doesn’t understand at all, but is willing to feign it. “The Pokemon Center hasn’t been renovated in years.”

 _And whose fault is that?_ He wants to ask, but he puts down his fork and bites his tongue. Rose takes his emptied hand, pulls it across the table, and grazes warm lips against his knuckles.

_Milk him for all he’s worth._

Piers averts his eyes. Oleana watches, unreadable.

“Are you alright not sitting down?” Piers asks her delicately, because he ought to take the gamble, now that everything else is already in the kitchen sink.

Her face momentarily softens at the unexpected consideration, easy to miss before it falls back into place.

“Thank you. I’m fine.”

The wine arrives in a cart, cradled in a chilled bucket of ice water. Rose excuses himself to the restroom. Restaurant staff pour two glasses; Piers watches in a half daze. It smells just like the packing tissue, only stronger. Pressed Cherubi, ethically sourced, if the label is trustworthy. He downs the glass in a hurried gulp- maybe it will take the edge off.

Oleana leans forward to fuss over his lapels, and tucks wayward strands behind his ear. He avoids her gaze.

“Want some?” he asks, gesturing towards the bottle. “I’m a lightweight.”

“I don’t drink,” she says curtly, but her touch does not match her tone. She returns to her designated position by the time Rose has reoccupied his chair, as though she never left her post in the first place.

“Is your schedule free tonight?” the chairman asks. His concerts and gym appearances are posted online; Rose already knows he’s got nothing better to do.

“Sure is.” Piers pours himself another serving.

Spikemuth gets an updated Pokemon center, and Rose gets laid. No matter how he dissects it, Piers is getting the better end of the bargain. At least, that’s what he tells himself on the way out of the restaurant and into the cab. Oleana takes the front seat by the driver, and dark tinted windows rise to neatly divide them.

Rose lands a palm on his thigh, spare hand browsing the news on his phone. Piers watches the trees fly past the window, and leans his head back. It is. Well, it’s not entirely unpleasant. It beats getting lectured on the benefits of battling with overlarge pokemon. Rose squeezes gently, hand inching closer towards-

His phone rings. Arceus bless.

“Apologies,” Rose says, and takes the call.

Piers nods, and closes his eyes. It’s a long way to Wyndon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is potentially triggering, so please take care of yourselves. Thank you!

Rose is chipper with whoever is on the other side of the line. They’re talking about pokemon donations for the charity event- worthy starters for disadvantaged children. Piers knows the business well enough- they’re excess chaff from luxury breeders, discarded for sub-optimal traits. A miserable child gets a taste of hope, and Rose gets accolades for taking out his garbage.

He’s groping his leg again while mentioning a shiny Copperajah raffle to the faceless colleague. It’s tolerable enough to ignore. Piers pulls out his phone and checks his messages.

**Marnie:** Nessa took me to the beach. We got fish n chips

 **Marnie:** Morpeko is harassing the Wingulls

 **Piers:** good on the little munchkin

 **Piers:** having fun?

 **Marnie:** yes

 **Marnie:** you should take up her modeling offer anime legs mgee

 **Piers:** I told you not to call me that

There’s a tug at the base of his braid; not harsh, but enough for Piers to stiffen in attention. Rose flashes a practiced grin and ends his call; it’s enough of a cue to text Marnie goodbye. The cab is quiet, outside from the muffled hiss of wind resistance. A finger loops through the rim of his collar, motioning Piers forward to meet the chairman’s mouth. Contact is brief and lacking in tongue; disconcertingly chaste. Piers folds idle hands firmly on his lap upon release, lacing and unlacing in nervous tics.

“You look much better without the excess,” Rose says, and if by better he means younger and more vulnerable, Piers is inclined to agree. The barbs are for deterrence, a practiced ugliness to discourage entry. At least, in theory. In practice, costume armor is ornamental at best, and bauble at worst.

“Thank you, sir,” Piers replies, because he is a coward.

 _Give him a champion time!_ Leon croons.

The cab slows to a halt, landing in what seems to be somewhere in the mountainous wooded area in the outskirts of the city. An imposing domicile rests like a gash of black near the foot of a hill, in an architectural style which Piers would mockingly call “Brutalist with too many extra steps.” Isolated, too. He doesn’t know whether to be frightened or nauseous.

Confirmed. Rose has awful taste. A hand settles at the base of his spine as they make their way towards the entrance, with Oleana steps ahead to enter the key sequence for the doors. Piers can’t quite fault him, all things considered. If he had cash to burn, a spy villain themed hideaway would be among his first indulgences.

Correction. He and Rose _both_ have awful taste. Arceus forbid they have something that dreadful in common.

The interior is a gaudy hybrid of slim, dark furniture profiles of the discreet rich, and red cushions of ostentatious rich. Rose tells him to wait in the living room while he finishes up some paperwork. Piers spreads himself on the couch like an obnoxious Yamper with obedience issues, because he’s entitled to whatever consolation he can find.

Rose laughs- the same fond sort of laugh Piers offers to Raihan when he says something stupid. It’s jarring enough to get him to straighten his back.

“I won’t take more than twenty minutes. Tell Oleana if you need anything.”

“Mmm.”

The chairman pats the side of his head, and disappears from sight, footsteps light against the wooden staircase behind him. Oleana heads off to the kitchen to get… something, and Piers takes the moment of reprieve to catch his breath. Two glasses of wine isn’t enough to mentally clock out, unfortunately. He buries a hiss behind his throat. He’s being a baby.

**Piers:** call the coppers if I go missing in two days

 **Piers:** kidding

 **Raihan:** the fuck

 **Raihan:** you ok?

 **Piers:** fine

 **Piers:** just really wish I was proper sloshed

 **Piers:** you free tomorrow night

 **Raihan:** I can slot you in

 **Piers:** thx see you

A soft tap of heels against tile signals Oleana’s return. She sits across from him with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table dividing them. A wrapped pill follows, left of the glass. Piers breathes in, sharp and smothered.

“It’s for you,” she says, with measured calm. “If you require it. It will make the night pass easier.”

He nods, but otherwise does not move.

“It’s not often that he takes a liking to others. You should be honored.”

Oleana continues. He dares to look at her, and finds her lacking in malice. Is this pity? Is this envy? She unwraps it for him. The medicine is round and white; familiar in the way that pokemon are familiar with plants they shouldn’t eat. Piers shakes his head.

“Thank you, but no,” he says. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Drink the water, at least.”

It’s an easy enough concession. His throat is parched. Oleana observes in silence, as though mentally filing his every strength and flaw, every kindness and weakness. She stands; he wilts. Her presence is a firm pressure; manicured nails lightly testing the curve of his jaw. She leans down to kiss his forehead and Piers allows it without protest, because if he’s entitled to consolation then she may as well be too.

 _That makes no sense,_ Raihan teases.

“You er,” Piers starts, evasive. He’s not exactly offended. It’s worrying. “I pegged you as someone who prefers women.”

“Eighty twenty.”

“...Ah.”

They’re back to their assigned places when Rose arrives, like dolls in repose when their child returns to see them. The chairman offers his hand, and Piers takes it, following him up the staircase and into his bedroom. It’s more modest than he expects. There’s a folding bed table perched over the sheets, occupied by a laptop, and sparse furniture with harsh geometry. Rose motions towards the monitor, and allows Piers to scroll through the windows. According to the forms, the Pokemon Center renovations should start effectively tomorrow: a donation to the city of Spikemuth. He’s seen the listed companies advertise in Pokejobs- everything is convincing; legitimate.

“Sit down,” Rose says, soft and even.

Piers does as he’s told, perched at the edge of the bed with his eyes pointedly enamored by wall patterns. Rose removes his clothes with the gentleness of a modest lover; he feels like a gift slowly unwrapped. There’s still bruises from the night before, and they are stark against the blank slate of uncovered skin. A pang of fear rises- would Rose be furious at receiving sloppy seconds?

The chairman removes his tie, and only his tie. He pockets its golden pin, and Piers closes his eyes. Rose adjusts the makeshift blindfold. Piers tilts his head to make it easier to bind, and hears a hum of approval. There’s footsteps and rummaging of containers, and soon the blindfold is accompanied with leather binding. Hands behind his back, ankles together. He stays still because he hasn’t been allowed permission to move, or speak. The practice is familiar enough for him to almost ease into it, though somehow he doubts that Rose has safe words.

A thumb pads over a recent mark; yellow and blue under his collarbone.

“Do you bruise easily?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rose eases Piers onto the mattress and positions him on his side. More rummaging sounds follow, and a click of an opened cap. Piers braces himself for whatever is coming, and a cold hand palms his hip. The grip steadies him while a toy’s blunt end eases inside. His eyes squeeze behind the cloth; it’s ridged and tapered for easy penetration, but wider further down. Rose is considerate enough to take his time, but this only makes it all the more humiliating. Piers holds his breath. When the last of it finally sheaths, the chairman presses a button at the base. It whirs to life in a discreet hum.

“If you hold out for longer than half an hour, I’ll give you an extra reward.”

_Fuck._

The older man rejoins Piers on the bed after a brief moment of distance, and adjusts his head to rest over clothed thighs. There’s the rapid clack of fingers on a keyboard. Rose is probably answering late night emails on his bed- having his cake and eating it. Occasionally, Rose pauses with a fleeting touch; strokes his hair, rubs his shoulder. It’s quiet, otherwise. His legs are trembling.

Rose is half mast. The older man’s length presses against his cheek under a pair of silk pajamas. Sleepy, classical piano floods the room from laptop speakers. Piers swallows air in shallow pants, but dares not move. He thinks he hears praise, or something like it.

He’s hard. He hates himself. He wants to rut uselessly against the bed, and he also kind of wants to die, but in the end he does neither, still as the dead while Rose rubs slow, small circles against the curve of his neck. There’s the buzz and click of a Rotomphone, with snaps at consistent six second intervals. Rose hums along to Debussy. Piers draws blood from his lip, white knuckled under the binding.

Time flows like molasses. _Consistency,_ a voice warns: his own. Rose pulls up a movie- a documentary on Corsola’s regional differences. He roams with idle hands, soft and undemanding. Piers sobs. There's a sort of shushing noise coming from the older man; like how one would soothe a baby with colic.

“You’re doing so well. Let it out of you have to.”

It’s an easy enough concession. It wracks his body; wrecks his throat. He’s howling like a small, wounded thing in a steel trap. Rose pats his shoulder.

An alarm rings. Thirty minutes, on the mark.

* * *

Logistically, none of this is about attraction. Logistically, Spikemuth is mired with dirty government officials; hungry vultures picking its innards clean of funds. The city is damned, Rose or no Rose, but he can at least. Do something, anything, but the league is more willing to pour investments in shiny and clean and pastoral and dynamax and gym leaders who can do backflips on stage-

Piers is none of these things. Rose has shit taste, this much is established, but it’s not about taste; it’s not about attraction. A child receives a pokemon from a charity event, and owes a debt. Oleana receives a guiding hand from the wreckage that is poverty, and owes a debt. Spikemuth receives a renovated building, and owes a debt.

Consistency.

Morning is a dull gleaming gem, spilling gray into the windows. A hand guides him to wakefulness. Piers grumbles; rubs the rawness on his wrists. Makes it worse. Rose laughs, not unkind. Sometime the night before, his body decided to clock out, without Oleana’s help, and today the excess is gone.

Rose has somewhere to be, and is already dressed. Piers has somewhere to be, he thinks. He doesn’t exactly know. It’s Tuesday, now. Charity event at the end of the week; a demonstration tournament… Wednesday and Fridayish? Not by Marnie’s side, because Nessa took on sitter duty on his behalf. Piers is a shit brother, and baby sis does well enough without him.

“I’ll have Oleana fetch you breakfast. A cab will come in two hours. Have a safe trip home.”

“Thank you, sir.”  
  
“You don’t have to call me sir outside of play.” A pause. “Though, you’re welcome to, if that’s your preference.”

_Should’ve stopped me earlier, then, you prick._

“Noted, sir.”

He pecks Piers on the cheek with a low chuckle.

“Would you be so kind as to offer me good seats for your next concert?”

“Uh.”

_About attraction-_

“Piers?”

_Consistency-_

“You can check the ticket site, sir.”

Pats his head like a Yamper with obedience issues. Morpeko pissing all over the winter quilts. A kiss goodbye, unearned. Once he’s gone, Piers screams into high thread count pillows, reconstitutes himself from the floor, and takes a shower. He leaves smelling like a bottle of dead Cherubis. Oleana arrives with breakfast on the folding table, seated at the bed corner, ever watchful.

“You fancy me?” Piers tests, because he’s tired and he wants to goad her into striking him, desperate for a smidgen of honesty. He chews toast with an open mouth, deliberate.

“ _Rose_ fancies you,” she corrects, poker faced.

It sobers him, somewhat. “That’s a riot. I’m a cheap whore.”

“He has all your flimsy indie albums.”

“You’re jostling me.”

Manicured hands pluck morning tea clean off its saucer. She takes a sip, as though to humor his belligerence, then sets it back down. Her finger points to the display shelf by the corner that Piers has ignored, understandably distracted by last night’s festivities. A panel of glass protects an array of his tacky CDs, neatly arranged by year.

She is not jostling him.

“Shit taste,” Piers mutters, nursing his tea.

Oleana smiles, restrained.

“I hate him,” he adds, quieter.

“He knows that.”

Two bites of bread settles like heavy stones in his belly. That’s about it for breakfast, then. Piers slips a new set of clothes left for him on the work desk by the window: black slacks and a gray pinstripe dress shirt. Still no new shoes- maybe Rose likes his old reliables? His team is still strapped to yesterday’s suspenders, so he puts than on too. Oleana’s watching; measuring. He doesn’t care anymore.

“Well.” Piers adjusts the sleeves. “What do you think of me?”

“I’d prefer you not break his heart.”

_Familiarity breeds delusion._

“I’m not asking about Rose.”

She pulls at his collar; smooths wrinkles down. No regard for personal space, but it doesn’t hurt like Rose’s intrusions, because like acknowledges like. Oleana’s lived garbage before and he can respect that, if nothing else.

“You clean up well, but there’s also nothing wrong with how you were before.”

The cab arrives. He really needs to go.

**Piers:** how was your sleepover?

 **Marnie:** good

 **Marnie:** she’s taking me shopping

 **Marnie:** the dresses here are very pretty

 **Piers:** tell Nessa to send me the bill

 **Marnie:** she says she’ll cover it

 **Piers:** don’t forget to say thank you

 **Marnie:** you dont have to remind me i’m not a tosser

 **P** **iers:** I know. you’re wonderful

 **Marnie:** (heart emoji) (crying emoji)

 **M** **arnie:** don’t get soggy on me now

Raihan meets him at a new Alolan food place in the heart of Motostoke, prepared for a roll of food snaps for the ‘gram. Piers offers to split the bill, because he’s earned cash to burn at the expense of this dignity. Not that he had much to begin with, but, it’s the principle of the thing.

“Sugar daddy treating you well?” he hazards, though there is a careful edge to the words. “Did he get you a stylist?”

_-Nothing wrong with how you were before_

“He’s polite.”

“Mmm,” Raihan says, noncommittal. He takes out his phone. “Ugh. Shit photos in Leon’s feed again. When’s he gonna learn composition?”

“Just suck his dick already.” His voice is flat; devoid of bite. “I’ll get over it.”

Raihan makes a wounded face. For a moment, there are continents between them. Glass clinks. Patrons chatter. Fingers reach to hold his hand from across the table, and Piers has no fight in him to protest.

“I have two hands, you know.”

_Consistency! Delusion! Consistency!_

“You’re- you’re jostling me.”

“Give yourself more credit, please. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m shit under your shoe.”

“Don’t start with that rubbish.”

Raihan nuzzles his wrist; presses his lips there. No Rotomphone in sight. Piers looks away- left to the window, then down towards his plate. He’s nudged the colorful meal around with his fork into a delightful slurry, and put none of it in his mouth. It smells good. He wants to vomit.

“Is he- is he treating you well? You can tell me the truth.”

“He’s polite,” Piers repeats, and doesn’t volunteer more than that.

* * *

Wednesday is a series of demonstration matches- mock battles for the public, to entice potential challengers. There’s throngs of ten to fourteen year olds in the crowd, because of course skill concentrates most in pools of ten to fourteen year olds. Adults have other things to do, unless they battle for a living. Piers has things to do, and so does Rose- but apparently sending a set of new pants for the mock battles is high on the itinerary.

He’s starting to tell these trousers apart by touch and weight alone. It’s bothersome. By now, chances are high that Rose scoped out his measurements from a cult fan site, and tailored the garments to fit. At least he gets to wear his gym shirt, and the white pleather jacket from Wyndon, one of his few splurges.

The suspenders stay. He doesn’t hate Rose enough to deny their functionality.

**Nessa:** ready to get your arse walloped

 **Piers:** its a demonstration match

 **Nessa:** ready to get your arse gently walloped

 **Piers:** better

 **Nessa:** your sister’s a sweetheart by the by

 **Piers:** she really is, thanks again

 **Piers:** how much do I owe for yesterday

 **Nessa:** told you, it’s on my tab

 **Piers:** let me

 **Nessa:** no. stay mad over it

 **Piers:** Arceus please

 **Nessa:** model with my agency instead

_read 10:13am_

_Piers is typing…_

She suggests advertising Spikemuth as an alternative fashion haven in between the matches, with Piers as its face. The advertising would be gradual, with viral campaigns and guerrilla marketing. He balks at the thought, but if anyone can pull of a stunt like that, it’s Nessa and her team, and it’s already been established that he’s severely lacking in dignity. All that leaves is someone to take over the gym.

**Piers:** i’d be in your debt forever

 **Piers** : well, i’m in your debt forever already, so what else is new

 **Nessa:** I’m a good debtor

 **Piers:** a regular Tom Nook

 **Piers:** pay your mortgage when you want

 **Nessa:** you’re my friend

 **Nessa:** i’m always happy to help you

_Consistency-_

**Nessa:** Rose isn’t hurting you, is he

 **Piers:** no

 **Nessa:** Good. he’ll get his arse walloped

_read 3:02am_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: The Unrequited Love Tag is Not for Piers/Raihan
> 
> Thanks so much for your support.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves gifts.

On the way to the second set of mock battles, Piers stops to examine the fruits of his labor. Construction scaffolding notwithstanding, the new center still gleams with welcoming pastel lights, a shining beacon and odd one out among the rows of buildings in varying states of disrepair. He smiles. Next time he should try for a new hospital wing; couch it in flattering words and seal it with undignified party tricks. Tie berry stems with his tongue while uncomfortably distracted. Seems right up Rose's alley.

_ At what cost? _ Marnie's voice, scolding.

Gotta keep walking.

Friday's mock battle roster starts with Nessa versus Bea, a wise demographic cater from a business angle, if Piers were to be crass. There's Raihan versus Leon, naturally. Milo and Kabu, as obligatory type advantage instruction. Him and Opal, tossed somewhere midday. Some other setups- they'll be in the schedule. Maybe a cheeky lunch break at a mediocre restaurant with all his coworkers, because they do that sometimes. Quarrel over who foots the bill like grandmas flexing their bank accounts and generosity, as one does.

Raihan always pays for his food. Piers grins, a kick in his step. Dining isn't akin to Pokemon battles, but somehow he's the only one of his colleagues privy to this sacred knowledge. Or maybe the bloke pays for it because he genuinely likes Piers, and a fixation for self loathing is just narcissism with the coin flipped.

He'll apologize on lunch break.

They pile in the common lounge in gym regalia, in and out as the matches run its course. Opal asks how he's doing these days, and when he answers, she smiles like she's tasting his words for lies. Fairy type, as one does. Kabu asks, well meaning, if he's getting enough sleep. Milo recommends he try out a certain sort of tea, organically grown and harvested from his farm.

"Helps with a case of the nerves. Roseli infusion. I can mail you a pack."

Is that what he has? A case of the nerves? A dash of the doldrums? Inevitable negative side effects of paying for repairs for Spikemuth with his body?

"Thanks a bunch. Bet it's tasty."

They all get along well enough, bound by proximity and the patient hand of time. If it’s poor company hygiene to sleep with coworkers, then Galar’s gym leaders have metaphorically all elected to stop bathing. With the territory, it can’t exactly be helped. There’s inherent friction in rivalry; there’s flattering uniform design.  _ Corporate sanctioned polycule,  _ Milo joked to him once with a church approved smile, turning Piers redder than a cheri berry, because just because it’s true, doesn’t mean any of them will openly address it.

With the exception of Opal, the last of her old guard, though scattered stories of her heydey suggest much of the same practices back then. And Allister, for obvious reasons. Kid gets hounded by who gets custody of the child that day, instead. Nine extra parents, with varying degrees of mental dysfunction.

A humiliatingly subpar one night stand is how he and Nessa became friends in the first place. He can’t knock what works.

Raihan gets his arse delivered to him first class, as it goes.  _ The inherent homoreotic tension of rivalry. _ He stumbles into the break lounge in the middle of Milo and Piers politely but heatedly debating the pros and cons of decorative curry.

"It's about as nutritionally beneficial as chewing a wad of Wooloo fur."

"Ate it all the time as a kid. It's cheap in bulk. Turned out fine."

"I'm sending two packs of that tea for you now, Piers."

Raihan pulls out the damn Rotom, because of course he does. The threat alone is enough to make both parties stop.

Piers turns his attention. "Hey there. Was the ritualistic beatin' to your liking?"

"Not the best way to phrase it, mate."

"You waste too much time on weather setups. Swear on my dead mum, you'll get proper reamed by a ten year old challenger real soon."

Milo holds back a snicker, because it's not his brand to be mean. Raihan flushes, cherry scarlet right down to his ears, while their farmer friend gently and delicately explains the nonzero possibility of an ankle biter not old enough to grow pimples blasting his pokemon with one type advantage move, because he squandered a turn telling Torkoal to cast Sunny Day. 

Raihan acquiesces. "Those ten year olds are on 'roids. I won't rule it out."

"They're not," says Piers, leaning into his chair. "Just unemployed."

Milo is beaming. " _ Three _ tea packs, on the house."

It's about time for lunch break. They huddle as a unit to five star Hoenn barbecue; hounded by cameras all the way. More relentless than usual, it seems. Leon pulls out Charizard, siphoning the bulk of their flashes. He's just being considerate, Piers thinks, ignoring the way Raihan's face toes the line between envy and worship. 

That's the thing with two hands. Even among the ambidextrous, you tend to favor one over the other. 

Macro Cosmos employees manage crowd control once they enter the restaurant. Seating arrangements vary by mood and unpredictable dice roll. Opal wants to dote on him today, and Piers secretly wants to be doted on, so they pair. Kabu wants to be closest to the bathroom door; Nessa and Bea have been passionately locked in a conversation about unusual textiles since they left Motostoke gym, and carry on well into their seats. Raihan wants to sit next to Leon.

_ Consiste- _

"Do you still play kalimba?" Opal asks, in between bites of appetizer. In his teen years, he had a part time job at Ballonlea soothing fairy-types with music; hellish commute with hippie employer. Kalimba was the obvious choice- cheap and portable. A part of him misses the Hatterines. Soundless flocks; wordless whispers. Insistent.

"Sometimes," Piers offers. "Sis loved it when she was little."

"I'd bet. You should come visit again."

They’ll have time before challenger season. Ballonlea gym hosts a sizeable population of doting old ladies, eager for a stand-in child or two, since theirs are all grown. He briefly lived with Marnie there, when they were younger and recently parentless. Nine grandmas with varying degrees of cooking prowess, and two miserable children. 

He owes a debt.

"Sometime, sure. That fella's out of business now, isn't he?"

Opal grins, almost wicked. "Couldn't keep the hat girls calm after you left."

"Figures."

Kabu's complaining about the mirin being stale. Piers catches furtive glances of Raihan watching Leon while waiting for the main course. Charcoal grilled. Maybe it's better to give this up. Cheri berry glaze in vinegar reduction. Leon's known him longer. What's the shelf life for mirin anyway? He's shit under his shoe. Two months before it loses its flavor, according to Rotom. It's best to break it off early. Gordie has a low spice tolerance, and Kabu is laughing. Used goods. 

"It's not too late to try fairy types," Opal offers like an alluring fruit. "Outside of the job. You might like it."

Piers frowns; turns his head away from the opposite end of the table. Raze that bridge that they're rapidly approaching.

"I'm set in my ways."

He asks for a takeout box for dessert. Marnie loves Hoenn sweets, but they're hard to come by in Spikemuth. A flash of pain grazes Leon's face at the mention; brief enough for Piers to wonder it he'd imagined it.

The champion has a brother, if he remembers correctly. Around the eligible age to challenge the league. Maybe he'll befriend his sister along the way.

"Hop loves those, too," Leon offers, almost an afterthought, but takes none for himself.

* * *

Nessa and Piers discuss their campaign in the break lounge. They should have a schedule solidified after challenger season; but for now the team will focus on deliverables, and work on scouting Spikemuth local businesses and artisans to feature on a rotating release.

"What if rent goes up?" Piers starts. The last thing he wants to do is displace locals at the cost of something as vague as _returning Spikemuth's pride._ "I never actually put much thought about it before. Challenge the champion, make the hometown proud. But even if I win, they're still in a ditch."

"I know all about that rigmarole," Nessa says, but does not elaborate. She massages her temples. "I think the benefits outweigh the setbacks, though. And I work with pretty good people. They do their best to keep things ethical."

_ Pressed Cherubi, ethically sourced. Wine dark sea. _

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"Fair enough."

A pause. "How's Sonia?"

Nessa softens. Her face transforms from the sound of the woman's name; brighter and less burdened. "Keeps sending me weird scholarly articles to read. Got no time, though. Bet Leon would like them more. Did you know he used to want to be a professor? Sonia told me."

"I buy it," Piers says, feeling small. "Gotta be huge brains in that noggin to hold the title for so long. Took out his GPS, though."

"Salty boy," Nessa teases. "He's a good guy, though. Go easy."

_ Give him a champion time! A champion time! A champion time! A ch- _

"I know."

"Raihan chews on his arse enough as it is. Bad photo this, ugly outfit that. Should just fuck it out, I say."

"Probably."

An even longer pause.

"Marnie alright?"

"Shaved bits of her hair off into designs with a shower razor the other day. Messed up the right side. Had to cut her a fringe for it."

Raised brow. "How does it look?"

Piers pulls up the pictures on his phone with a quiet swell of pride. Nessa appraises, seemingly impressed. He needs to tell Marnie about this. Garnering the approval of a high ranking fashion model with a homemade haircut is no easy feat.

"Did a much better job than the wreck of an undercut Sonia had at 15."

"...I need evidence."

"Absolutely not!" Nessa balls her fists. "She'll kill me. I know she has it in her."

"She won't," Piers says, drowning out his envy with a mental image of aforementioned bad undercut. "She loves you."

Cheeky grin. She knows it. "True enough, but you're still not getting the picture."

"Fair. Gotta defend your lady's honor."

Does Raihan hear his name and ease at the sound? Does Rose? What does it feel like to be held in someone’s heart as a welcome guest, without debt owed? Without leverage? Without bargaining chips? He doubts that he’s ever going to know. 

It's Nessa's turn on the pitch, and well past his last match of the day, so he may as well go home now before the press swarms early evening. In the dim light, the work in progress Pokecenter casts harsh, eerie shadows. The silhouette of his body is a dull balisong in the pavement, bathed in a neon pink glow. He really should have asked for a library instead, or a 24 hour clinic. One more mistake for the books, because Piers is nothing if not consistent in his failings.

A chiptune Obstagoon cry denotes a new email on his phone, right as he is about to throw himself on his bed. Rose, on a private account.

**_Attachment: s-17-key-kalimba-engraved.jpg_ **

**_Piers,_ **

**_You featured this instrument in your first release, and I do wish it would make a return sometime in the future. Regardless, I'd love it if you play. The instrument was a personal commission from an artisan in Ballonlea, who specializes in shed Mawile teeth tines. The dual typing properties make for a lovely sound. For me, it is little more than attractive paperweight. I'm certain you'll make better use of it._ **

**_Regards,_ **

**_Rose_ **

It's prettier than the two he has at home. Black wood stain; engraved roses with gold embellishment. The metal keys shine faintly, scalloped at the edges. It must sound as nice as it looks, if it is custom made. Had this been a gift from anyone else, Piers would have loved it.

**_Rose,_ **

**_My first album was kinda cheap because all I had was a kalimba from my old job and some secondhand instruments from the 'rents. I'm surprised you like it, though I suppose there are some people who want me to go back to that sound._ **

It's those odd snippets of humanity that startle him. Billions aside, Rose is still a man. A man, it appears, who enjoys low fidelity releases recorded on a five year old laptop by a then destitute 16 year old boy. Shit taste. What else is new.

_ He likes them precocious. _ Leon's voice, like a graveyard sentinel.  _ He had no hand in making you. You get to leave whenever you want to leave. _

This is not something he wants on his mind right now.

**_Thank you for the gift. I don't mind playing it for you._ **

**_-P_ **

There was another box waiting for him at his doorstep on his way back, but it's from Opal this time, the surface decorated in artfully pasted blush paper doilies. Figures why she was so chatty earlier- she must have known this would arrive today. A taped letter over the package is addressed to Piers, though the box itself is labeled for Marnie.

Too many gifts, lately. Can't look any of them in the mouth. That's just ungrateful.

**_P-_ **

**_Here's a bit of pink for Marnie, and for luck. Challenger season is on the horizon. If you'd like to repay me, come visit the Hatterines. They miss you too._ **

**_Yours,_ **

**_O_ **

Little demons, that entire evolution line. Not for the faint of heart. Piers buries his feelings in a funeral pyre of emotional constipation, so it somewhat makes sense that they're so fond. Marnie's learned much of the same, if not better. Maybe they'll like her too.

Awfully calm for someone engaging in prostitution in exchange for city renovations. 

_ As one does, _ says Leon. 

His stomach backflips. They'll burn that forest to that ground once they get to it.

He and Marnie not exactly in the red anymore, all things considered. Better than most residents, anyway. The league pays… fine. His music covers the holes left over. Still in that shitty childhood apartment because Piers wants to hoard all he has to send her off to a good school once she's grown. Spikemuth pride. Spikemuth shame too, like a glittering shadow that keeps them hungry. Keeps them distant. Biting their ankles with persistent teeth.

Making him not above begging, because he's never really left the hole- it's just gotten bigger to accommodate more of his things.

_ Thank you for the gift. _

Rose tomorrow. One of his smaller hotel chains, for discretion. Charity event on Sunday. A second email, late in the evening, strongly recommending that he play kalimba while the children stand single file to receive their donation pokemon at the next scheduled event. Arceus, that one's  _ definitely _ a no. How does one phrase a no to Rose in a way that makes it seem like it is to his benefit?

"Too cheesy. Makes it obvious you're stroking your dick with a stack of cash while people watch."

Piers breaks into peals of laughter in the middle of tearing open a box of decorative curry. He'll take any consolation he can get.

**_Rose-_ **

**_String quartet with some cheeky flutes would work better. Galarians are conditioned to get emotional on command at that sort of thing. Add Kalos horn if you want to evoke the sound landscape of superhero movies._ **

**_-P_ **

Chiptune Obstagoon. That quick, huh.

**_I trust your judgment on everything except Kalos horn. Superhero movies mass produced in Unova are not dear to my heart._ **

**_-R_ **

Right, so his taste isn't that bad. Piers can allow such a concession. He's made enough already, and one more can't hurt anymore than the rest, piling up like dirty plates in the sink. They'll wash those dishes once they get to it, or throw them all out to buy new ones. Porcelain, blush pink. Rose foots the bill.

**_Not even the 3d animated one with the comic effects? The pseudo dot grids? Aren't you a man of taste?_ **

**_-P_ **

Two minutes. Arceus, this guy messages fast.

**_Watch it with me tomorrow. Try and change my mind._ **

**_-R_ **

Better head to bed then, to save energy. Rose is gonna lose, whether or not he actually likes the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a sound reference of Piers playing kalimba in this chapter, please refer to [SaReGaMa's solo in G minor.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGiYjsrPXJY)
> 
> Bonus video of someone [absolutely thrashing a Hurdy Gurdy,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypuaJLHK_LQ) because that about sums up Dark/Fairy.
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features the "power imbalance" tag, and may be potentially triggering. It's also skippable- you can skip this chapter and it won't interrupt the flow of the story.

Old industrialist proverb: it takes three generations to go from shirtsleeves to sleeveless. Grandfathers earn wealth, fathers steward it, and grandsons squander it. Rose has cataloged fates of early competitors, bore witness to tail-end career nosedives, and found the adage wanting. Gold to gold plated, more like. Palace to Mcmansion. A lot of room to just a bit less room, because for those with free reign all their lives, even a hair less space may as well be none at all.

He doesn't plan on leaving heirs. There’s enough in Galar to keep his name in people’s mouths long after he dies.

Rose wears his role like he wears his clothes, though sometimes it feels like a second skin, and other times it feels like a cloak- heavy, but loose over the shoulders and easy enough to detach. Eldredge knots. Starched collars. A well timed pause in the middle of a speech, for punctuation. A gentle tilt in wording when one addresses a child. A firm flash of teeth when one addresses an adult. It’s foam armor, mostly; paste instead of diamonds. Hold yourself the right way, and most won’t dare call out the bluff. Hold yourself even better, and the bluff takes a hard shape, indistinguishable from something real.

It’s early morning in an upscale hotel room. Piers has his lap as a pillow, clothed except for jacket and boots left at the door, and is trying his best to look like he's bored. What a contrast, to the more visceral performances on stage: body alight like an electric conduit of vicious emotion. You could get burned from radiant sparks of leftover kindling from video alone. The Piers offered today, though? It's taking a set of honed Damascus knives, and melting them down to make wind chimes.

Well, not quite. No trinket of a chime makes a sound like that, or at least, not one forged by human hands.

Rose is no stranger to artifice as survival, and nor can he discount both presentations to be true.  _ A truth, _ anyway- one of many in the young man's costume closet. He strays a thumb across that parted mouth, and collects the brief stumble of gasps, to make a point to himself. Takes the dry swallow that stirs the bared column of his neck, since he's handing that over too.

Neither of them pay much attention to the movie. Rose is preoccupied with Piers, and Piers is preoccupied with the steady thrum of what's inside of him. It's smaller than the one from the forest retreat, but more than compensates in intensity. Within minutes, the younger man has given up on airs, nails scratching lines against couch velour- a music box wound at the crank, tension coiling tight beneath his fingers. 

Rose shifts him slightly to the side, and makes just enough room to unzip and free the tenting rise under tan slacks. Still morning, so there’s no need to rush. Strokes himself, indolent. Piers writhes and clasps both hands over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. A shame, to stifle such a lovely voice, but for now, he’ll allow it. 

He lowers the telly’s volume with a click. It’s technicolor glimmer and junk food in bright, dancing paint, but Rose is willing to admit the visual disparity between this recommendation, and countless others plastered in the rail and city ads. 3D movies are beginning to suffer from a severe case of homogeneity, apparent even to Rose, someone far from their target demographic. 

That Piers has an eye for this difference comes as no surprise, for like acknowledges like. He sticks out like a hunting knife left on a tidy neighborhood sidewalk, but for now until they’re done, however long this dalliance drags, he’s Rose’s knife, folded impotently in a waiting pocket.

Spindly hands reach low, but Rose swats them away before Piers has a chance to touch himself.

“You know that’s not allowed, love.”

“S-sorry-”

Rose pulls off his tie. No self discipline, honestly, but that’s easily corrected. He rearranges the body beneath him into a seated position, and binds his wrists behind, then eases his back onto the cushions. Nudges legs open with his knee. Kneads his thighs. Piers is rosy cheeked, flush with shame and arousal.

“Ask me nicely,” Rose says with an understanding smile, and relishes the profuse way he shakes his head, the poor thing. Exposes the skin there- he wasn’t lying about bruising easily. Explores the yielding flesh of his inner thigh with a wet tongue.

“Please-”

Rose pulls out the toy in a smooth motion, making Piers rasp at its absence. It clatters against polished wood just as he pulls legs over his shoulders and sheathes himself inside. Piers whines when he bottoms out, and chokes out a sob once Rose starts to move in earnest. 

“Please- fuckin’-  _ sir- _ ”

“Patience.”

The dick’s as pretty the rest of him, proportionate and with a slight upward curve. There’s time for that later, though. 

Piers settles his head in the juncture between neck and shoulder, face wet against cloth. They’ll need to bring the suit to the cleaners, later. He’s babbling incoherent strings of sounds, like a strand of baroque pearls pried from an oyster. Rose is shushing him again- a tad too fond. He quiets a little then, as though resigned. 

Most days, Rose can’t tell fondness from pity, or curiosity from love. It all goes in the same stomach, anyway. Sometimes it’s a soft tingling of warmth; sometimes it’s an insect swarm eating him from the inside out; sometimes it’s a pleasant heat pooling at the base. The return on investment is also the same- a little piece in exchange for little pieces, because the bulk of them are in pits impossible to claw out from. Donation starter or no starter; charity or no charity. 

Of course, there are notable exceptions, because that’s simply how nature unfurls its cloak. Enough grookeys slamming on typewriters will eventually produce a sonnet. Enough starters offered to the general public will eventually produce a champion.

Rose had no hand in making Piers, gym leader status aside. Spikemuth sponsored, folding switchblade of a man, somehow blossoming fully formed in a planter lined with nothing but sewage. 

It’s fondness  _ and  _ it’s pity. It’s both and it’s neither. It’s something else entirely.

There’s grateful orphans, so many that he can’t be put to task to remember their names. There’s Leon, a gleaming phoenix from unlikely ashes, but Rose was the one who lit his torch. There’s Oleana, ever faithful, but love from obligation and love freely offered are not one and the same. 

Is it? Does it matter? It goes in the same cavity, beating heart under rib cage, differentiated merely by measures of intensity.

Rose releases first, and a few lazy strokes is all that it takes for Piers to follow. 

For a long while, nothing stirs. And then, Piers snaps the costume back into place- a sharp, angry shape concealed in the deceitful slack of his body. He eases into a slouch, and Rose undoes the knots of the tie behind his back, then tosses the red strip of fabric onto the floor. The younger man tests the joints of his wrists, and once satisfied that everything is in working order, slips into a lazy smile.

“Your vibrators look expensive.”

Rose laughs. “The are.”

“You keep puttin’ me on your lap. Could just get a cat, y’know. Sir. One of those round faced Alolan things.”

_ Can’t stick dildos in a cat,  _ Rose doesn’t say. “You’d like me to donate to the hospital, correct?”

He perks up at this. “If it’s not too much.”

It isn’t, and both of them know this. 

Rose adjusts his clothes, and turns off the telly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, sir,” Piers says. There’s sincerity there, laid bare like an open throat. “Shower, then?”

“Thirty minutes at most. Room service will deliver breakfast.”

“Suits me fine.”

They clean their bodies with an arm span of distance, tacitly agreed on.  _ How much product is required to upkeep that hair,  _ Rose wants to ask, until he finds that Piers is staring, albeit not maliciously. The chairman would hesitate to call himself attractive- functional at best, and smart with his choice of attire to work around genetic hindrances.  _ Dad bod, _ according to an online tabloid he has since bought out, for little else besides pettiness. He won’t hesitate to call himself a bit petty, because self-acceptance starts with openly addressing one’s failings. Attractive? Not so much. Maybe the staring is yet another artifice to add to the garland of performance, but either way, his guest is entitled to look him up and down. 

Piers starts to scrub like raking grout from tile, then abruptly slows, as though remembering where he is. His bones jut out like strange, half formed pearls under the nacre of his skin, frame sparse and narrow, save for a taut stretch of wiry muscles. Likely thinks he isn’t attractive either- the slouch betrays as much. Rose calls to mind a rapier, and then, an urumi: coiled and concealed as glittering accessory.

He’s hiding his barbs. Poorly, Rose might add, but his relationship with this pretty box cutter is equal parts transaction and spectacle, so it’s not like it matters anyway.

“Can’t stick dildos in a cat,” Piers says while washing suds out of his hair, out of the blue and fifteen minutes too late, as though he’s been reading his mind.

Well, he did herd Hatterines for a while. It’s not something he’s willing to discount.

“Not legally, no,” Rose replies, and it paints an unsightly mental image that’s only banished once breakfast arrives.

There’s separate plates for them, the tray heaped in sausages, sweet crepes with accompanying bowls of assorted berries, and imported gyokuro tea. Piers pours himself a cup before anything else, while Rose gets to work on the crepes. To call his guest a light eater would be generous, because all he cares for are a handful of berries. He empties the cup, at least, but low appetite is a symptom of depression or stress, and Rose debates whether or not he should address it.

Copperajah in the room, so to speak.

“Not hungry?” He’s invested enough to be at least a little concerned.

“Sorry. It um.” A knife cuts into the crepe, spilling red syrup on white stoneware. He’s making a show of pushing food around to distract from it not actually being consumed. “Looks good. Just a little nauseous.”

“Shall I call room service for some Cyclizine?”

“Some what?”

Rose sets down his fork. “Nausea medication.”

“It’s fine. Really.” He’s on his third cup of tea. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re free to cease our meetings whenever you like, if it causes you discomfort,” Rose says with some measure of kindness, and to this Piers sinks into the couch, resolutely shaking his head.

“I can’t,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Rose. “City won’t be fixed otherwise.”

Rose is certain that he means to say,  _ You won’t fix the city, otherwise,  _ and it’s not untrue. It’s not his personal responsibility to supplant what their local government has refused to provide. Plenty of other charities in Galar, all equally worthy of his time. He knows Piers is aware of this, because when he takes hold of his hand, it’s slack and devoid of resistance.

There’s something to be admired about martyrdom, he’ll admit, especially when the martyr hates you, yet offers himself up to be gutted open anyway. It’s one of the reasons Rose has bothered with this arrangement in the first place. A blase premise wouldn’t be worth a fraction of the price.

That, and the fondness, wherever it came from. Out of pity, perhaps, or the frightening magic cast whenever this decorative razor plays his instruments, trying to argue that love is something greater than an agitated allergic reaction, or a plague of the body. 

Hold a bluff in your heart just right, and one day it may as well be true.

“We haven’t discussed safewords,” Rose says, patient as he budges.

“Don’t need ‘em,” Piers lies, cutting little jabs at the growing tension. He doesn’t pull his hand away. “You’re basic as fuck.”

A laugh bubbles out of him. This is also not untrue, if his peers are any indication. The wealthier the person, the more varied and disgusting their options become. 

“Would you like our sessions to be ‘less basic,’ then?”

“No,” he says, grimacing at the suggestion. “Sir,” he adds, tacked on like a cheap tip for a waitress. 

“Pick a safeword, then.”

“Cherubi wine.”

“Adequate,” Rose says, and kisses the back of his hand. “We can negotiate the intensity of these sessions, whenever you're ready. I’d rather it be agreeable for both of us.”

Piers visibly relaxes; enough to spear a forkful of crepe into his mouth, but not much else. It’s a start. Rose momentarily steps away to the bedroom, and returns with the kalimba. He intended to offer the gift as soon as Piers arrived, but forgot somewhere along the way. Maybe it’s better that this morning played out of order, because the gratefulness washes over him and clears so much of that spite away. Sure, he’s couched his bitterness in harmless barbs, but Rose much prefers this.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s genuine and just a little yielding. 

Ah, there’s that pity, worming its way inside the cage of his bones. Piers lays his head on his lap without being prompted, and plays him a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Damascus steel](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Damascus_steel)  
> [Urumi Sword](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMAsCuDFSUI)  
>   
> This chapter was difficult to write, for obvious reasons, but also because Rose is a smart person and I am not, and you can only say "knife" so many times before it starts getting absurd. My sincerest apologies to Into the Spiderverse and Alolan Persian.
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking around so far. You guys make my day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with a cuddle pile and ends with talks about prostitution and the nature of love.

It’s Friday morning and there’s mock battles. Mock battles means bright eyed, bushy tailed little kids on the bleachers. Mock battles means either Opal or Kabu or Melony picks what restaurant they’re eating at lunch break, because everyone else says “whatever’s fine” or “don’t know.” Mock battles mean Piers might come over afterwards because Marnie is at a friend’s house. Mock battles mean a slot with Leon in prime time, because a sizeable portion of their viewer fanbase are the 18 to 35 demographic with low grade humiliation kink who delight in Raihan getting his arse handed back to him.

That’s a quote to put in his feed. He’ll add that when he has free time, on his more casual account.

It’s not that he hates fighting Leon- the opposite, actually. They’ve been connected at the hip with Sonia since childhood and were temporarily blinded from the concept of entropy. And then Leon became champion, and has lived in Wyndon during challenger season every year since he was ten, and then Sonia started the professor thing. Raihan wants to follow, wants something that he can’t call by name, but all he has now is a strange limbo of feelings that clash like oil and water and carbonated soda in a bottle, and a distance he can’t cross. Most of all, he wishes things were less complicated. Fighting, weird baggage aside, at least meets Leon halfway.

He’s got that smug “you’re going to lose face” on that Raihan can pick like a toothpick to worry leftovers in the back of your mouth. Not that anyone else can see it- because the message is not for them; encoded with minute facial tics only apparent to Raihan because he’s known this bastard for so long. It’s kind of romantic, if romance involved Stealth Rock and a hoodie full of sand, and the firm handshake Leon gives him when he loses.

Raihan’s been meeting Leon halfway ever since he’s been champion. He leaves at 10 as a challenger, and Raihan takes up gym duties in Hammerlocke five years later. He leaves and Raihan follows. He takes up Raihan’s challenge and exactly half of Leon’s team get knocked out, more often than not. It’s a trap, Raihan thinks, because he’s stuck toeing the line between what’s the right amount of distance and what’s too close, because one day Leon might leave to a place that Raihan can’t follow.

If that means challenging him and getting beat every time, it’s a small price to pay. If that means not telling him he’s loved him for as long as he can remember because he might not reciprocate and it would make things weird, then that’s okay too.

They had mock battles in the first few months of his gym leader tenure, off challenger season. It was a notable year because so much of the old guard had recently dropped their responsibilities on teenagers not old enough to vote or drink alcohol. Bea didn’t have abs yet. Opal’s hunch was less prominent. Milo had acne so awful that Raihan would have given him dermatology advice if he hadn’t been new here, if he wasn’t latched like an accessory while Leon showed him vending machines and practice areas and the rest lounge. 

He gasped when he saw Piers and Nessa on the couch back then, slack bodied, loose limbed in an almost embrace, and very much asleep. Kabu, notably less silver haired, sat opposite of them, quietly browsing a dumbphone. He met eyes with Leon, put forefinger to lips, and Leon nodded, ushering Raihan out of the room.

“Are they alright?” Raihan asked once out of earshot, nearly stammering. “Is that- is that allowed?”

Leon scratched his head. “Nessa has fashion week. Her schedule’s loaded this month, too. And Piers uh. I think he works at least three jobs. His sister is around Hop’s age and he’s pretty much her only guardian.”

“Oh, I see,” Raihan said, even though he very much didn’t.

He still doesn’t, and they still do nap piles in the lounge, with Milo, Bea, and Gordie sometimes joining in, and even Raihan once in a blue moon, when he’s really bone dead. It’s less upsetting to see as an adult, but maybe it’s only less upsetting because exhaustion is expected of older people and somehow you’re supposed to sympathize less once you’re grown, even though the hurt is the same. Raihan pushes it all away the same way he pushes away Leon, because if he holds it too close, he thinks too much into it, he doesn’t know if he can function.

Shit, none of them were even eighteen back then.

The couch fills a few hours after lunch, though right now it’s a cuddle pile, the nap pile’s less depressing cousin. Milo sits at the farthest right, sipping a pink smoothie. Nessa, in the middle, leaves her legs splayed on Milo’s lap like an ottoman, and leans slightly on Piers, who seems to be determined to actually get some sleep. Leon, in the far corner of the room by the vending machines, watches with interest.

“We need to convert you into our fold,” says Milo, soft faced and bright as always. “Why don’t you ever cuddle?”

“Cuddle with us, Leon!” Nessa adds, giggling behind her fingers.

Piers pats the spare space on the couch with a tired grunt.

“It does look comfortable,” Leon admits, though he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

“It is,” Raihan says with a flash of teeth. “You’ve wanted to try it for years, you uptight motherfucker.”

“I am-” Leon starts, stiffening as though he’s hit a nerve. “I am not uptight.”

Leon is uptight. Leon is a coil wound so tight, that to unravel risks breaking, and Raihan is stupid enough to push. Who would have thought that a fishbowl life from a young age wouldn’t negatively affect you as an adult? It radiates from his body like a string taut with tension, like crackling static. Leon’s uptight, and you can see it on his shoulders, so he wears a cape. Leon’s uptight, but it’s not like Leon can help himself, because he’s been in the public eye since he was 10 and he doesn’t know how to turn it off.

He treats it like a battle. Of course everything’s a battle. 

_Do I look ok? Did I say the right thing? Is this interaction with me a positive one? I can’t curse on my feed, half my followers are kids!_

_You were a kid too,_ Raihan wants to say. _We all were. Go ahead and say fuck._

Leon has to prove that he isn’t uptight, so he sits next to Piers and gingerly wraps his arms around his waist. Piers offers a hum of approval, and Nessa shifts to lean more of her weight on him. Milo smiles, watching their champion quietly and rapidly going red behind the ears.

“Jeez, your middle is tiny,” Leon breathes.

“Not ev’ryone’s built like a genetically enhanced apex predator,” Piers replies with a quiet laugh. “Also, thank you.”

Raihan’s brain gets trapped in a loading screen for a few minutes before starting up a reboot sequence. Physically, he’s standing in the gym leader lounge near the entrance. Mentally, he doesn’t know whether he wants to slot himself in place of Piers, held in the gentlest vice between the two arms of his first love, or Leon, who is totally right about how great it feels to be big spoon to a body that wouldn’t look out of place as a statue in a cathedral, if you take out the ridiculous hair. And then he sees them as they are, without Raihan replacing either, or wedged in between, and it still feels right to him.

“Cozy, isn’t it?” Milo says, to which Leon slowly but surely nods, tomato bright and terribly still.

“You win.” Raihan holds his hands in the air, because to Leon, everything’s a battle and losing should cheer him up in some way. “I’m sorry for calling you uptight. I’ll buy you a beer.”

“You’ll buy me dinner _and_ beer,” Leon says, raising the stakes, and Raihan just nods, restraining his enthusiasm. It’s no punishment if Leon knows he wants to lose.

“I can’t even begin to unpack what you two consider foreplay,” Nessa teases with a bark of a laugh, and to that, Leon sinks further into the couch, because there’s still a point to prove. 

“Shhh. Relax,” Piers says softly, twirling loops in Leon’s hair. The hold tightens. “That’s th’ whole point. It’s safe here.”

Leon unravels, closed eyes like lowered flags of surrender. His shoulders untense and his head lolls to the side. Raihan envies such elegant efficiency, for Piers to manage in five seconds what Raihan has been rendered powerless to stop since Leon became champion. That's his shtick, he guesses. You can relax around him and he's not going to judge any of your sins, even as you list them like a litany of complaints.

Do cathedral saints ever want something in return? Has he offered anything to Piers after whining about his day and fucking him, besides free food?

“Wish I’ve done this sooner,” Leon starts, and there’s something weird and choking about the way he says it. “Raihan’s right. I am uptight.”

“You’re here now,” Milo soothes.

Cuddle pile lasts for ten more minutes before Milo and Nessa return to the pitch and Piers has to go… somewhere. Just like that, the magic spell is gone.

“How was it?” Raihan asks. Leon remains on the cushions, mask only partially donned. 12 years as champion has left him with an image fixation; no hair out of place, no wiggle room for unsavory rumors. He has a role to play, and he has to play it right with no margin of error.

“Could have went on longer.”

“Ah, I see,” Raihan says, though he doesn’t. He can sympathize, but it’s not the same.

“I want to try out that new Meowth cafe. Three different flavors of Meowth.” He’s already changing the subject. “No booze in there, but it would look good on Pokegram.”

“Do you actually like Meowths or are you doing it for the page?”

“I guess? They’re cute.” Leon smiles a little, fingers twitching at his sides. “And I can’t exactly ask you guys to come over to my place and do that for four more hours, so the cafe will have to do.”

 _You totally can, you oblivious git,_ Raihan doesn’t say. “I think Piers would be up for it. Maybe Nessa in the off-chance that her schedule gets a hole, but I don’t think either of us know Milo well enough. Why not shoot a text?”

“Very funny, but no,” says Leon.

They settle for the Meowth cafe after work. It is clean and small, with room for a maximum of six guests and a rotating roster of seven cats. The furnishings remind Raihan of Kalosian style eateries, all slender wood and subtle charm. Even the cat trees and toys are thematically matched; warm brown and wicker woven. Raihan pays for a thirty minute slot and the pair sit close to the windows, evening sunset filtering in a warm orange haze. It makes Leon look younger as it spills over him like a benevolent mirage, while he browses the menu. 

The food is mediocre, but it’s not the main feature, so Raihan is willing to forgive it. Already, a little lavender thing has taken to Leon’s leg, rubbing and encircling. He reaches down to scratch under its chin, and Raihan pulls out the Rotomphone.

“This alright?”

“Turn the flash and the sound off,” Leon insists. “You might scare them.”

Rotom does its thing while they eat. Leon, as it turns out, is a Meowth magnet, with one on his lap and two gathering at his feet. Pokemon can tell a strong trainer blindfolded and in a hole, Raihan knows. They can’t pass up a chance to improve themselves, and humans are the fast ticket to sate their insatiable fight kink. Them growing attached to you is only a bonus.

That’s what Sonia said, anyway, in clinical terms. It’s boring. When did Sonia get so boring? When did Leon get so uptight? Raihan has to overcompensate in theatrics for both of them. Raihan has to-

“I’m envious, sometimes,” Leon starts, while scratching his lap occupant behind the ears. “I don’t know how you all seem so relaxed. Maybe it’s because you all have something to fall back on, but I’ve only ever been champion.”

“I have camwhoring as a fallback,” Raihan jokes to ease his friend’s discomfort. “And besides, that’s not true. You’re really smart, and you know how to please a crowd. That’s like. Acting. Commercials. Pokemon Professor, at least.”

“I don’t mean as a job. I mean as identity.”

Raihan wants to understand, but he can’t, and he knows it. In a roundabout way, he thinks that ousting Leon from his throne is the only shot at giving his friend freedom, but releasing monsters raised in captivity doesn’t bode well for their futures. Who knows, though- he adapts quickly enough. Maybe it would make him less uptight.

“Do you want me to ask Nessa and Piers on your behalf for cuddle stuff?” Raihan says, because this much, he can do. “As a group thing, so you don’t feel weird.”

There’s a smile. “Thanks, I’d like that.”

**Nessa:** swamped for this month sorry

 **Nessa:** but YES WHEN I’M FREE

 **Nessa:** ONE OF US ONE OF US

 **Nessa:** WHAT DID YOU DO RAIHAN

 **Nessa:** ooh its time its time its time get cuddled upon

 **Raihan:** shit calm down lmao

 **Raihan:** but yes commence

 **Raihan:** Piers?

 **Piers:** music video to shoot next week, have some free time after that

 **Piers:** drop me your schedules and we’ll work something out

 **Piers:** i think it would help with stress, he probably needs it

“Nessa’s busy, but Piers said to message him your schedule. Should be sometime next week. You’re free next week, right?”

“I’ll make time next week,” Leon insists, with a well above average level of enthusiasm.

_Is it gonna lead to fucking?_

_Shit, don’t think that. Leon doesn’t seem the type to fuck on the first date._

_Piers fucks on the first date. I think… Wait- it was third date for me._

_Is this a date?_

_Arceus watch over us, now and at the hour of death-_

“It’s a date, then,” Raihan says, and feels like he’s won a momentous battle when Leon doesn’t correct him.

* * *

Saturday starts out bright, but rain arrives by noon. The hotel lacks any sort of styling product, so his hair dries in limp waves, like those Waterhouse mermaids who drown men in style. Unfortunately, drowning Rose is out of the question, because he’s fixing Spikemuth for every scrap of dignity that Piers is willing to hand over. It’s also illegal. That, and, all things considered, their meetings are far from awful.

It would have been easier if it were awful. It would have also been _worse,_ but at least there would be a line in the sand to see their pantomime for what it is.

This?

This is a date.

They’re actually watching the movie this time. Piers has elected to act docile, since Rose seems to be into that sort of thing. Are there people who go to strip clubs to order “poor lonely lost thing” as a lap dance? A town friend of his who occasionally watches Marnie and moonlights in sex work mentioned something about characters. _Dorie is aging out of the character she plays. Different people want different things._ Wilting flower. Sex kitten. Doting mommy domme.

Fuck. So Rose likes wilting flower. Fucking damn it. How did he reach this conclusion if he’s a fan of his music?

 _Raihan likes wilting flower,_ a voice reminds him. He swallows.

“What d’you think of it so far?” Piers asks, quieting wayward thoughts down as he folds the provided hotel shower robe closer towards himself. It’s more than a little condescending. He’s not exactly easy to break in half, not anymore. At least, that’s what he’d like to believe.

“It reminds me of Lichtenstein paintings. Maybe a bit of Klimt. The music choice is superb."

Rose drapes an arm over his shoulder. Piers leans into it, and slouches down to minimize their height difference. The role isn't too difficult. He can still be mean, just in a fun way. He has to play up how grateful he is, which isn't hard, because he is grateful, for the most part.

A cat would cost less. Just throw in one of those fuck sleeves.

"Lichtenstein plagiarized from comic artists and didn't give a cent to compensate," Piers says instead. "I can sorta see the Gustav Klimt, though."

"You're full of surprises."

_Piers, I am so impressed with your average intelligence and access to the internet! I expected you to ask if Klimt was a chocolate bar._

"Thank you."

A hand rakes through his hair. "Is there anything specific you'd like for lunch?"

"Not really." He always leaves the menu up to someone else. "I'll have what you're havin'."

"I was in the mood for a fatty fish. It may be good for you as well. Your fatigue seems like symptoms of Vitamin D deficiency."

"Uh." Positively lyrical.

"Are you free for a blood test later today? Better now than next week. You really shouldn't neglect your health."

"I don't. I don't have a medical fetish." His head is reeling. Needles? Really? It was bound to get weird at some point, but needles are a fucked way to go. "If that's your thing then I guess? Sure. It shouldn’t be too bad."

"Piers." Rose's voice is firm. He's looking at him like a second head has sprouted from his shoulder, and then the look fades into. Pity? Concern? Rose rubs his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down. 

This is a courtship ritual.

“Piers, it’s not that kind of doctor.”

“D’you send all your whores to the doctor?” Piers asks, because he’s stupid and reckless and most of all, would much prefer honesty to whatever the fuck this is turning out to be.

“No,” Rose says, and does not elaborate. “If you’re up to it, we’re going after lunch.”

_I’m sendin’ cheers to you, from the doctor’s office._

“Th-thank you,” Piers stammers, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

* * *

It does turn out to be Vitamin D deficiency, with low iron levels. No STIs. They rule out chronic fatigue syndrome and send them off with two pill jars. Piers is silent for the duration of the car ride, bag of medicine dumped loosely onto his lap. Rose has not touched him once.

“I don’t actually like you,” Piers starts, because for all his talk of honesty, he’s red handed as a hypocrite, so he owes it to them both. “I don’t hate you, and sometimes you’re funny, but I don’t think I can reciprocate what y’actually want from me.”

“What do you think I want from you, other than what we’ve explicitly laid out?”

“Fuck. I dunno, love?” 

Copperajah running wild in a museum and breaking all the statues. Yanks head clean off the Venus. Punches through a priceless painting. Screams.

“Forward, but we’ll take it.” Rose is not even remotely rankled. It’s better. It’s worse. It’s both and it’s neither. “Say it’s love, or any other solid shape. If it holds enough space, does it need a reflection? You exist, cognizant as a point in time. Do you need a mirror to tell yourself that you’re real?”

Piers shakes his head, and can’t stop shaking it. “I’m not like you. I can only see myself through the lens of how other people see me, and if they don’t like me back, then they’re wastin' my time. That’s how _most_ people work.”

The sky shivers slate gray with rain. Rose watches the splatters.

“Then you already know my answer.”

He’s been doing the same with Raihan for half a year. He's done this with Marnie without conditions all his life. He’s a hypocrite _and_ a liar.

“...Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're here folks
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> [Hylas and the Nymphs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_William_Waterhouse#/media/File:Waterhouse_Hylas_and_the_Nymphs_Manchester_Art_Gallery_1896.15.jpg) is the famous Waterhouse that Piers refers to, though the Waterhouse that actually fits him is [Cleopatra.](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cleopatra_-_John_William_Waterhouse.jpg)
> 
> I'm sorry for end chapter infodumps, they're super indulgent. Do you guys enjoy them?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with a mental breakdown about loss of personhood and ends in ditching a charity event.

Rose has offered to take him home. They’re ten minutes away from Spikemuth when Piers realizes: you don’t listen to a melody and wonder if the melody loves you back. Any beat worth its weight holds you like a spiritual possession and you must simply let it pass like a merciless current; a temporary delirium. A song for love. A song for fear. A song for hope that you kindled out of chunks of detritus. It will sustain you or destroy you for the duration of its dalliance. Reciprocation is not the point.

“I think I misunderstood you,” Piers says. “I’m sorry.”

“I value your honesty,” Rose replies. “I don’t get honesty very often. Would you still like to keep seeing me?”

“I think charity’s your boner. Oh no, this person can never repay me. Whatever shall they do?” He laughs, and takes the older man’s wrist, fiddling with the band of his gold watch. “You have so much power over me, and I’ve still opted not to lie to you.”

“Go on.” 

“Yes, if you’re not mad at me.”

“I’m not.” Their ride stops in front of the town shutters. “Here’s your stop. Please remember to take the supplements.”

Rose kisses him on the cheek. He’s suddenly sixteen again, writing subpar lyrics about love on a kalimba. He’s suddenly young and scared again, hoping the Bandcamp page can help pay for their electric bill.

“I’ll set an alarm reminder so I don’t forget. Thank you for today. Seeya at the charity event.”

He walks the rest of the way.

_You’re not a melody._

_You're not a melody, you're a person,_ Marnie growls, like a rumble that rapidly crests. She’s howling as hard as the day that their mother died. She’s grasping at his sleeves. She’s pummeling little five year old fists against his brand new rental suit. 

_a person a person a person a person a person a person a person a person a Person! A Person! A Person! MY PERSON!_

_MY BROTHER. MY PERSON._

Is love ever really selfless anyway? You love someone because of how well they slot into your faults and failings. You love someone for their acceptance of you. You love someone by how tightly you’re bound together, by time and trauma and shared naps in lounge couches. You’re never entirely out of the picture. Your sacrifices for love will still benefit you in some way, no matter how small.

Piers can never forget the funeral; dust grays and dusk walls and aunts and uncles who couldn’t afford to keep them but offered condolences, as if condolences could pay for an apartment. Spikemuth’s former gym leader hovered close to the back, arms crossed while a mealy-mouthed distant relative spoke of their mother. So kind. So giving. A bit too free and reckless, though. So young. A bit too young to have those kids. So beautiful, though. Didn’t do much for her in the end. No wonder her bloke left early.

_If the crash didn’t kill her, the whoring would have eventually, am I right? Her little apples didn’t rot far. Just look at their clothes._

He still can’t frame their mother outside of the things she offered them. Outside of the things she was willing to give up. Even her musical skill was a gift she passed down like a torch.

Marnie is waiting at home. He holds her, silent and unprompted. She slots into his faults and failings. She’s better than him. She’s more.

“Tell Miss Opal, thanks for the dress. Can’t stop wearin’ it.”

It’s pink and soft; nicer than what he’d buy her. The edges are scallop cut circles. The sleeves look warm.

“D’you think it would look nice with a leather jacket, Marnie?”

“Huh. Didn’t consider that. You’re the rock star in the family, but I’ll try it.”

It’s suits her. It more than suits her. It’s his sister, sprouting fully formed in the dark without sun or soil. He’s never loved her more and he’ll never love her less. He thinks, at this moment, that he almost understands their mother. Maybe that’s all that love is- an endless horizon of what you’ll eagerly surrender, for the chance that your sister fares better than you.

There’s new bills burning in his pocket. There’s bonuses and rewards. He’s a person and not a melody- he needs to believe it. Rose doesn’t have to know.

* * *

It’s Sunday morning. His hair is product free and loosely braided, with spare, framing strands. It makes his face seem softer to the point of nauseating. The suit looks amazing on him, but he has no idea how to knot a tie. Piers has been fumbling with the decorative red noose in the bathroom for the past fifteen minutes. The Youtube tutorials don’t help. 

Maybe it’s nerves. Would Milo’s tea have helped with this? Roseli blend. Great for anxiety. Cherubi wine. Great for being plastered. He doesn’t know. He keeps trying.

Leon enters the loo and takes a piss while he fails to loop the lariat. He gets done and washes his hands, and Piers continues to struggle. Their champion breaches the distance.

“Need help?”

“Yes, please,” Piers says, and wonders what he looks like when he begs. Pathetic, maybe. Do people like that? Should he do that more? More thank you. More yes please. File the barbs down to nothing. It might make things easier.

“Hmm. For this collar... half-Windsor knot, I think,” Leon murmurs, tying the tie as effortless as his victories. “Red? Doesn’t strike me as your usual pick.”

“It’s not.”

“Ah.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. Leon’s trying to be polite. Leon’s a good person. He still wants it off. “Hey. Are you okay right now?”

“I recently found out that I have iron and vitamin D deficiencies, but I took my meds today, so I should be fine.”

“Those take a few weeks to kick in. Do you need to get some air? I’ll come with you.”

Leon is champion. Leon is consistent. Leon is a good person, and most importantly, Leon is not going to hurt him, and even if Leon tries to hurt him, it’s not so bad because he’s at least good looki-

_Piers. What the fuck._

“Sure. Thanks.”

_Yes, please! Yes, thank you! I’ve lived entirely off the gifts and kindness of others! I’m shit under your shoe! I’m so grateful that you’re offering me your time! I get to pretend I’m a person-_

It’s an ugly gray outside. Blooming flowers appear dull under an overcast sky, and Wyndon’s Rose Stadium looks like a bloat instead of a blossom. Piers is wobbly and jelly legged, and since the last of his dignity has been whisked away for a new hospital wing and bulk padding for his emergency savings account, he doesn’t mind leaning on Leon for support.

“Did something happen?” 

_Please, thank you, please don’t worry about me, it’s embarrassing, thanks a lot-_

Arceus, hallowed be thy name, how did his babysitter neighbor do this for so long? How did his mum? Is he just weak? Is he just spineless?

“Nothing big, but um. You can cash in on that cuddle now, if you want. I think I need it.”

Leon rushes to oblige, and Piers thinks that he almost understands why Raihan is in love with the champion. His arms feel like anchors. He’s squeezing a little too tightly- not enough to knock the wind out of his lungs, but enough for Piers to know that he needs this too. Saints, why does he need this too? Demons, why does he need this too?

He used to watch the nap pile, way back when- it wasn’t that long ago, actually. He shared shifts with Kabu to keep the gym leader lounges quiet for sleeping occupants, and prevent nosy challengers from entry until they finally flexed the budget enough to hire guards for the doors. Leon never bothered to rest himself, and Piers chalked it up to pride, or haughtiness, or image. Or anything else other than-

“You should have done this ages ago,” Piers says while buried in Leon’s collar. “No one would have thought less of you.”

“The others needed it more than I did. I didn’t want to take up the room.” 

His hold is engulfing and unrelenting. Piers thinks he’s going to drown, and for a moment, forgets that they’re on land, in a parking lot, outside of Wyndon stadium.

“It’s not a contest.” Piers holds tighter. His hair is soft and smells of spring. “It’s not a battle. You deserve a rest, too.”

“Thank you,” Leon chokes. 

Is love selfishness? Is love surrender? Is it both, or is it neither? Because this definitely feels like love, whatever it is.

They return to the pitch together. It is decorated the way outdoor weddings are decorated, but with more chairs and more spectacles and a blush pink panel of pokeballs, each one of them in the center of a red steel blossom. 500 starters for 500 children. 500 rejects with imperfect IVs. 500 kids in their Sunday best, shabby and doe eyed and wanting.

Raihan is fashionably late. He’s so late he’s not even here yet. It’s an hour into the ceremony.

“Don’t tell me he got lost on the way here!” Leon jokes, while draping an arm over his shoulder. He’s entitled to it. They’re friends.

“Maybe he ditched,” Piers offers. “I planned on ditchin’.”

“That explains the radio silence on social media. Might be pretending that he’s sick.”

“Is he sick of this?” Piers asks, a little braver than usual.

“I’m sick of this, so possibly.” Leon replies. “Rose could just send these pokeballs in the mail. I get that it’s a good example to make your philanthropy public for other loaded wads to follow out of peer pressure, but fuck. Those steel flowers. That’s cringe.”

“Isn’t Rose your surrogate dad… figure?” 

Does he want the answer to this question?

“More like distant pseudo uncle who paid for my lodgings until I got old enough to handle my own finances. And sometimes tries to crack dad jokes over text. I guess that’s dad-adjacent. His taste is absolute shit. He never left the mid 2000s.”

 _Oh boy,_ Piers thinks. _I can’t tell Leon I’m fucking his dad-adjacent pseudo uncle. Who is cringe. And never left the mid 2000s._

“Does he treat you well?”

The girl on the stage receiving a busted Raichu looks way too much like Marnie.

“Well enough. I’m good for his image. He’s usually hands off but once in a blue moon he gets emotional and sends me a long message about how he’s proud of me.”

_Your quasi-dad got Spikemuth a new hospital wing in exchange for fucking my arse. I had a breakdown over it and now I’m fine because we had a cheeky hug in a parking lot. This is so weird. I’m so sorry Leon._

There’s a little gangly Not-Piers next, with striking white hair and red, bandaged knees. He gets a Hattena, who makes a home on the top of his head. Opal’s probably laughing right now, but she’s all the way over the other side of the seating arrangements and he won’t be able to see her face.

  
  


**Piers:** Ding dong there’s the ditcher.

 **Raihan:** uuugh don’t rat on me

 **Raihan:** those charity events. Always with the steel flowers. With the pokeball centers. 

**Raihan:** I’m sleeping in and I made the right choice, have fun being suckers

**_Piers has sent attachment: 235qegsadhe-2.JPG_ **

**Piers:** Leon says hi, ditcher

 **Raihan:** Holy shit 

**Raihan:** lmao

 **Raihan:** Hi Lee, buy Piers lunch, bitch needs to eat more

 **Piers:** Don’t embarrass me in front of the champion

 **Raihan:** GIVE HIM A CHAMPION TIME LEE!!!

 **Raihan:** FLOWERS AND CHAMPAGNE!!! WINE AND DINE!!!

 **Piers:** Go back to bed or I’ll snitch

 **Raihan:** FINE HAVE FUN YOU BOTH DESERVE IT

They’re raffling the shiny Copperajah now. Its skin is duller and more faded than its normal form. Piers finds it strange, for a creature with less luster to have more worth by virtue of rarity alone.

Is he common? Is he rare? Does it matter?

“Champagne’s a bit much,” Leon says, his smile beautiful and unguarded. “What’s your opinion on cat cafes?”

“The ones with the Meowths that you can adopt? Yes. That’s not even a question.”

Leon stands, resolute, and takes his hand. “Ditching?”

He doesn't even need to ask.

“Ditchin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, but hopefully the brevity doesn't hinder. Four chapters left to go. 
> 
> Thanks for your readership.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where the shit hits the fan.

1.4 hours into the ceremony. 1.3 minute walk to the custodian lockers under the west bleachers, with a brisk pace. Add leeway for roaming crowds. Add more for Piers, as an unplanned variable. Leon tugs and pulls and guides; Piers passively allows. Click of the combination lock. His spare clothes are here. Leon shrugs off his suit, unties his tie, and digs into a duffel bag of slightly worn and slightly wrinkled disguises.  _ Focus. _ College hipsters on a date would make a good enough alibi, right? He pulls on a hoodie, fuzzy light mint and more Milo’s style. Ties his hair, pulls it back, and winds it into a neat bun. Completes it with a pink pompom beanie and square rim glasses, punctuated with a slouch.

He passes the bag to Piers. He can feel his eyes like a rake combs through nagging autumn leaves that muck up a garden. His companion styles his braid into a top not, and nervously slams on a brown Circhester trapper hat. It rests comically overlarge on his crown.

“Stand up straight,” Leon suggests, though comes off more like an order.

1.8 minutes. Piers substitutes the jacket for a thick, sky blue turtleneck with white polka dots, at least five sizes too big. Quick learner. They resume walking. Staff exit up ahead; they should be cleaning the bathrooms right about now. Leon produces a second set of spectacles from the hoodie pocket, with round lenses and thick, white plastic rims.

“Only if you want. That pick changes your silhouette enough already. Good choices.”

He takes the offered glasses. “Have you considered a spy job at the Galarian embassy? Arceus fuck.”

“That’s flattering. I’ve just had practice.”

Exit time is 4.1 minutes in. Outside the building now. The city monorail should be less crowded because of today’s proceedings. Their metal car is empty. Piers sags in his seat, leaning onto his shoulder. Leon doesn’t mind, per se, but this physical intimacy speedrun takes some getting used to, even with all the hugs he offers to little kids as champion. He slides an arm over Piers, and pulls him closer.

“So, tell me ‘bout this  _ practice _ ,” Piers says, tracing an index against the pastel green fleece over his belly.

Wyndon is a blur of windows and reflective light. The sky is a gleaming, bursting blue, now that the clouds have all but cleared. Leon can’t help but tug him closer. He feels like he’s won something, though all he has managed to do is share an activity that he usually does alone.

“It’s patterns, mostly.” Leon draws an upside down isosceles in the air between them. “Anticipated shapes. The pattern for  _ champion  _ is long hair and inverse triangle upper body, with an expected set of color schemes. Predominant red, with black and white accent colors. The cape is a heavy identifier. You change the pattern and the champion is harder to pick out, because the pattern they’re looking for is gone.”

He drags a straight line with his nail. “The pattern for  _ Piers…  _ well, your shape’s kind of angular. Soften the edges up. Add some round bits. If you learn the patterns, you can challenge it with contrast.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve bailed.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m not a pattern,” Piers says, though there is no anger in his voice. He takes Leon’s hand- the one not drawing shapes in the air, and laces bird thin fingers into the gaps. “And neither are you.”

Three stops to the cat cafe. 7 minutes to the end of the ride. 3.2 minute walk to and from, give or take pedestrians and pace.

“It’s not a bad thing. Patterns are beautiful. You’re not a pattern- you’re many, and I can’t even begin to catalogue them. I don’t think I can ever count them all even if you let me get to know you.”

“Math nerd’s guide to flirtin’,” Piers chuckles, though he isn’t offended. “Wait. Won’t they notice that you’re gone?”

“I wasn’t scheduled to individually shake hands with the kids this year. They wanted an everyman focus, whatever that rubbish means. That’s why none of the gym leaders or celebrities were seated in the front row. They put parents at the front instead, to watch. The ones with parents, anyway. And donors to fill the leftover seats. I think it works fine.”

“Bread and circuses.”

Leon sighs. He presses his lips to lily knuckles, as though asking for forgiveness.

“You’re not wrong, but it still means something to them, you know?”

It’s their stop. 2.8 minute walk to the cat cafe- there’s less people outside. Maybe they all stayed indoors to watch the ceremonies. They pass an upscale clothing boutique, fancy restaurants, and an antique bookstore. Piers lingers by a wine shop display, entranced by a glossy advertisement for pressed, small batch cherubi wine. Its logo is a winding berry vine, strategically wrapped over a romantic nude of a woman with red hair.

“What do they mean by ‘ethically sourced?’ Don’t the Cherubi die either way?”

What a strange question.

“It means they’re done in sustainable small batches, and they’re mechanically separated to only use the food pods and not the main host. The food pods can grow back.”

“Sustainable small batches.” Piers repeats the description like it’s a nonsense phrase, and shakes his head.

Adjusted, an extra 2 minutes to the cat cafe. It’s dangling pointers from sloppy programming. Dangling pointers crop up during object destruction. Avoid them using smart pointers. Clean them up with Boehm garbage collectors. Tie all the knots clean.

_ Not a pattern, _ Leon repeats to himself.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” he says, and though Leon doesn’t buy it, it’s not his right to press further. The smaller man takes his hand like a wayward child, and they manage the rest of the way. All the meowths have memorized Leon by smell, and rush him with an eager pouncing of paws at the door. Piers laughs- the motion shakes his blanket tent of a sweater; fabric swaying at mid-thigh. Their server stares at them curiously, but does not comment on their clothes.

“Table for two?” She greets crisply. 

“Yes, please. Slot us for an hour, would you?” says Leon. He pays in bills.

Piers scoops up an Alolan Meowth. His arms are drowning in water blue sleeves. The cat purrs up a storm, and Leon is alight with a surge of fondness. 

Other than them, the cafe is empty. Lunch break is over for most workers. Leon counts his lucky stars, and chooses seating close to the back. They browse the menu. It’s low-mediocre and less than half of the sandwiches are prepared in-house, but no one here comes for the food. Piers orders a roseli and oran herbal tea blend, with two mini spinach quiches- cupcake sized novelties for fun portability. Leon has coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich melt, because it’s hard to screw up something that boring.

“I heard you wanted to be a professor, before you became champion.”

The meowths are appeased by his presence. It’s strange, how they soften to a gentle lull. Piers is not a pattern- he’s Cloudflare’s wall of entropy, organically unpickable by design. He’s a contrast of sharp edges and a sweet siren song. He’s analysis paralysis in mortal shape, with a strange voice and soft, calloused hands.

_ Thy kingdom come, thy will be broken. _

Arceus parts the sea, and traitors scatter his plates. He mourns for his children. He’s giver and punisher, for blessed are the meek. Inherit the earth. Inherit the sea. Inherit your suffering, and wear it well. Your burden cross is the bridge you lay down to reach the land of promise.

“Yeah, that was my dream as a kid. Things are easier to process when you try to understand it.”

_ Our father, who art in heaven, why don’t you stay here? _ That song was great, sure, but fuck, did those fans overplaster it on T-shirts. Leon knows he can never understand. It’s not his right to.

“I think it’s harder, actually.” Piers rubs the cat’s head. He’s a tender muscle further rubbed sore. “It’s harder when you understand it. You know how it works, and you’re still powerless anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Leon says. What can he say to that, really?

Piers is an old world ghost- the wailing and gnashing of mourner teeth. He’s plague brought down by the machinations of an angry god instead of poor hygiene practices. He’s the sublime painted by Romantic painters, of staring down a cliff’s jagged rocks and wanting to jump. He’s righteous wrath and bottomless pity.

Leon leans across the table and kisses him on the mouth. Piers doesn’t pull away. It’s not his style to do any of this in public, but the cafe is empty and only the cats can judge them. Piers kisses like an examination; a clinical swipe of tongue, an exploration of teeth. The champion files it to memory- it reminds him of when he was young, and he would count the minutes and steps it took to get from his house to Slumbering Weald, to the edge of town, to the grassy fields.

Measure, weigh, identify. Demystify and deconstruct.

There’s teeth against his bottom lip. He strums fingers against the pale curve of neck, and Piers tugs the string of his hoodie like a dog collar. The waitress clears her throat. They separate, laughing like chuffed grade schoolers.

“As expected of the champion,” Piers says with a shit-eating grin, bordering on parody.

“I aim to please.”

“Service top or service bottom?”

Leon guffaws. It’s unflattering. “Not on the first date. Have some class. But if you must, the answer’s both, if I had more time.”

“Can you make time?”

_ No, _ Leon doesn’t say. Romance is the wildest variable. He likes routine. Twelve years as a champion has morphed him into a control freak beyond redemption. He’s too uptight to get drunk, and does way more counting than is necessary, but that’s why beating the tar out of challengers comes as second nature. It’s rote at this point.

This pattern means an idiot with no status effect moves on their pokemon. That pattern means a tosser who’s fumbling by dumb luck, arrogance, and overleveling, and the loss is going to sting deliciously. This other pattern means an actual challenge, thank goodness, because it’s starting to get boring. This common, grotesque shape means they can brag about fucking the champion in their socials. Avoid like the plague.

Forced celibacy. One consistency.

_ No, _ Leon wants to say,  _ but you make a good argument. _

“I made time for the cuddle pile, didn’t I?”

“It’s a start.”

* * *

“You know Raihan likes you, right?”

“I like to call it a long game of Torchic.”

“Leon, yer the world’s smartest dumb person. Holy fuck.”

“I know, aren’t I a dear?”

* * *

Twenty minutes left in their cat cafe slot. They’re a tangled pile of limbs and lust in the establishment’s only restroom stall. Piers has thrown a wrench in all his long established habits. Those cats will surely pass judgement, right? Leon yanks off both their glasses, stowed away in his hoodie pockets. He grinds their hips together, earning sloppy sparks of friction. The trapper hat falls down onto grimy tile. Whoever’s the custodian needs to be promptly fired, because there’s a Vanilluxe’s chance in hell that Leon’s picking that back up.

He undoes belts and unzips; he greedily roams and grasps. Snakes wrists under the sweater, well past desperation. Finds the small of his back under layers of wool and white button down. Piers fumbles; black slacks pooling past his knees. He yanks the hoodie for support; pulls down for leverage like a tab to open bad booze. Their kiss is clumsy and stupid, and their hands are equally uncoordinated.  _ World’s smartest dumb person. _ How fitting. Leon laps up the heat like a hungry dog, and the touch nears overwhelming- scalding marks; the even hand of God. He wants to burn.

He gnashes against the shell of an ear; mars the soft swan neck. Piers stutters, but recovers, then grasps their dicks together with a trembling fist. It’s stupid, but it’s fun for now. Leon feels like a fifteen year old fucking around with a fan in a public restroom. There’s fun, and there’s consequences after said fun. He fucks the hollow of said swan neck with his tongue, in the divot between clavicles. Piers drags ragged nails across the curve of his hip. There’s sure to be marks tomorrow.

_ Have some class, _ he said earlier.  _ That’s slut shaming, _ says another voice that sounds a lot like Sonia.

It’s fast and it’s stupid and it’s juvenile, and deep down inside Leon’s calling himself a prick, a douchebag, a dumb elitist with first world problems. He’s frotting in a bathroom with a punk. He’s fucking a warning. He wants to hold the warning tenderly in his arms. Arceus, he really is a dumbass.

_ It’s all about me! _

And then he thinks he sees Piers as he really is, or at least a facet or a sliver, dim under the bathroom light. His hair clings to him in soft clumps. He looks so tired, made even smaller under swaths of oversized wool. His pain and pleasure flows like waves and little trembles; visible and invisible radio signals echoing from the narrow frame of his body. In the midst of their senseless friction, Leon pulls in for a kiss, and hopes it comes off as sincere. That much, Piers deserves- much better than what he’s currently offering. Much better than what he’ll ever be able to offer.

Something like love, even though Leon doesn’t buy into it, personally. He’s pretty sure the only person he definitely loves is his brother.

It’s like shivering in brutal cold, unprepared and underdressed for the storm. Leon wants to burn. Leon wants to drown. Is that what love is? Burning? Drowning? All manners of violence?

_ Our father, who art in heaven- hallowed be- hallowed be-  _

“Fuck,” Piers hisses as he comes. It’s hideous and sloppy and all too mortal, and somehow the ugliness of it makes Leon spill in succession. Arceus, that’s too embarrassing to admit. He’s keeping that to his grave.

They straighten their clothes in a ditch filled with silence. Leon gives the waitress a hefty tip. The park is nearby, and it’s great weather to loiter, so they park their arses on the nearest bench. Clouds meander the afternoon sky, sparse and languorous.

“Where to now?” the champion asks.

“Wherever you want. I have a music video to shoot in Ballonlea startin’ tomorrow, so I can’t stay up too late, but anythin’s game otherwise. Wanna bother Raihan?”

“I’ll pass on bothering him for now.”

“Is it a pride thing?” Piers asks, brows furrowed. He’s got no right to look that solemn while wearing a sweater made for young at heart middle-aged women. “Don’t want to confess first?”

“It’s variables, is all.” Safe distances. Habit. A fear of being known. An inability to identify and label what love is.

Piers makes a face- like disappointment, or pain, or a moment of disillusionment. “I don’t understand you at all.”

The pattern for Piers is _ judgment, _ and of, _ you haven’t done enough and you’ll never be able to.  _ It’s poor taste to kneel in the middle of a park and beg for absolution, so instead Leon says “I’m sorry” and casts his discomfort off with a shrug. There’s an Obstagoon cry, filtered in chiptune. Any remaining flush drains from Piers as he balks at the white screen message; any judgment too.

“I need to go.”

“Wait, what? Why? Is it something I said?”

“I-” he fumbles. “I need to go. Sorry.”

Piers breaks off into a run, in the direction of the monorail. Leon is a coward and Leon isn’t nosy, so he doesn’t follow.

Not immediately, anyway.

* * *

Rose isn’t angry. Somehow this makes things worse.

Half of Galar’s motley crew played hooky or left early today- Leon, Raihan, Piers, Bea, and Gordie. Something something unprecedented. Something something good example. Something something think of the children. At least he shows no sign of knowing where Piers went actually off to- anticipated, really. Maybe he expects Leon and Raihan more than any other configuration. Piers has always been the odd one out of all of them.

_ A person, _ Marnie reminds, quiet but firm.

“I just needed to get some air, and I lost track of time,” Piers says, and it’s not exactly a lie, though it’s not exactly true. “We weren’t needed there anyway. It was everyman focused this year.”

Whatever that means.

“Enough time to buy a new sweater,” Rose retorts. He immediately regrets ever calling him funny.

“I’m sorry.” It’s true. He really is sorry. “I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”

“It’s alright.” A finger loops under his turtleneck. “Come closer.”

There’s still payment for this session, though in common slut cash instead of buildings. Rose must consider that punishment. 

* * *

Rose of the Rondelands. That can only mean one thing. Leon hisses behind clenched teeth- thinks of glass eyed, barely legal boys, and cocaine thin razor girls. They’re almost always his age or close to his age; late teens to early twenties. He’s heard that his benefactor is not a cruel lover. He doesn’t care. It makes him puke.

What point is being an exception when it denies the humanity of others?

Arceus, that sweater is swallowing him whole. Leon, wedged behind a parked Corvicab, watches as Piers walks out of the building, head hung low.  _ It’s harder when you understand it.  _ His body won’t budge. He’s frozen in place. 

_ On earth as it is in heaven. _

Zero hour. He’s an imperfect sword in a crucible, all chaff to be burned away.

It’s time to go.

* * *

Oh. Leon followed him here. How embarrassing. The embrace is embarrassing. The concern is embarrassing. All of it is embarrassing, but Piers welcomes it anyway. He’s not entirely listening and he’s not entirely paying attention as to where his body is dragged along- streets here and there, more monorail. Some kind of penthouse? A bed. A promise of tea. __

_ Stay the night if you need to. Fucking shit, of all the people he had to go after. _

“He’s not hurting me,” Piers says, and it’s not untrue, but it’s still humiliating. “What’s your problem?”

Leon shakes his head. Leon can’t stop shaking his head. He looks more like a person than he’s ever been on the telly, in the pictures, or even the cat cafe. Arceus has blessed him with a visage so rare. Piers almost smiles.

“I’m sorry,” Leon starts, holding him like cargo, like someone to love. He’s awful when he cries. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Piers says, awkwardly patting the champion’s head.

He doesn’t stop crying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves unearthing a treasure, and crying in the dark.

**Leon:** Come over

 **Leon:** It’s important

 **Leon:** please

 **Raihan:** ????

 **Raihan:** give me 20 mins

 **Leon:** Raihan

 **Leon:** i don’t think i know what love is

 **Leon:** i don’t know what it’s supposed to be

 **Leon:** how can you tell if it’s there

 **Raihan:** are you ok?

 **Leon:** Rose hurt Piers

* * *

Hop is born one year after Leon becomes champion, near the end of challenger season. His brother is a tiny, swaddled thing, made smaller in the dim screen of the Rotom phone. Leon cries and cries and cries, immune to his parents’ joy. He misses his mum and dad, and this small not yet person will spend more time with them than he’s been able to for months. What if they end up liking him better? Then he’ll never be able to come home.

He threatens to throw his next match. He breaks fancy vases and dinner plates. Oleana, rail thin and easily pestered, slaps him on the arm and calls him a brat. He spits on her shoe. She calls for Rose.

“They won’t replace you,” he reassures. He’s not much of a hugger. Nobody hugs around here. Leon wants so badly to be held, but he’ll settle for being mollified. Rose kneels to his level, and takes his hands. This is the closest they ever get to hugging. It’s never enough.

“Sometimes we have difficult emotions, but breaking things won’t make them go away.”

“Breaking things feels good.”

“Does the good feeling last?”

“No.”

“I have a secret you can use,” Rose says, soft and low; conspiratorial. “When you’re sad or scared or angry, picture taking those feelings and stuffing them in a heavy, wooden box. It’s a big box to hold all of them. You don’t have to take them out until it’s night time, when you’re alone and no one will make fun of you or yell at you for having those feelings.”

“Breaking things is faster.”

His benefactor laughs, not unkindly. “Try it sometime.”

In the morning, he is challenged by an adult with eyes like coal, whose Gyrados spams Surf on his Charizard. He pictures stuffing the man and the Gyrados in the box, and is saved by the grace of a full heal and sloppy play style. Leon wins, but he is still angry. He closes the lid, pauses to think, and then puts his Oleana and his parents in the box too.

At night, Leon opens the box, and apologizes to his brother in the pictures for being cruel.

* * *

Piers rubs Leon’s shoulder with one hand and holds a cup of tea with the other. Leon wants to throw himself out of the balcony, because this really ought to be the other way around. At least he’s not a blubbering mess anymore, thank Arceus. This isn’t a thing he’s prepared for. This person is someone he knows.

Did those people matter less because he didn’t know them?

“I hope you don’t take offense,” Piers says, smiling wistfully. His face is a broken reflection of trembling circles in the red water of the teacup. “But I’m actually kinda happy. And flattered. I’ve never had someone cry for me like that.”

“You’re not his first. This isn’t okay.”

“Why not? It’s consensual.” His hand moves from Leon’s shoulder to the rim of the cup, index trailing along the gold bordered edge. “Some folks need to get off. I bet those other people just did it to pay bills. Have you seen the rent in Wyndon?”

“I… I don’t know.” Leon grasps at the coverlet. “Is it really consensual if you’re choosing between sex and surviving?”

“It’s not like that. He’s just getting Spikemuth some upgrades. I’m not hard up on cash right now.”

Man, was it ever a terrible choice to give up breaking dinner plates when he was eleven.

“Raihan’s coming over. We all need to talk.”

Piers manages a derisive snort. “About what? He knows I’m seeing Rose. Are you gonna confess to him while I’m here? Rub some salt on it, would you, champion?”

“It’s not- it’s-” Leon rises from the bed, palms fisting at his own hair. He thinks of wind chimes and a small ghost voice. Bad feelings go in the box. Bad feelings go out of the box at night to process when he is alone. Bad feelings aren’t entertained in front of guests, not even special ones. Easy.

Piers stares impassively as Leon separates further. He kneels at the foot of a storage drawer, and sifts through piles of old clothes that he doesn’t have the heart to throw away. “Fine. I’ll just show you. Promise not to laugh.”

From under the ennui, he pulls out an old kalimba- an off-brand gift from his mother on his fourteenth birthday. It is mostly functional; of middling quality and noteless design. Leon has long given up on trying to play. Breaking things is all he’s ever been good for.

“I never learned how to use it well, but for a while I wanted to, because of you.”

He hears Piers take in a breath, followed by the soft clink of the teacup, left to rest on his table. Piers is wide eyed; face like a specter and fear like a saint. His eyes graze the kalimba as though it is holy fire erupting from Leon’s palms.

“What. What are you tryin’ to say.”

“I don’t know,” Leon admits, suddenly shy. “I don’t know what love is. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. You um. You went viral on Youtube years ago. I listened to all your old stuff. At night, for years. To help me. Maybe love feels like that. I think.”

“You don’t know me,” Piers warns, a sheen of water filming in his eyes.

“You’re right,” Leon agrees, folding into a small crumple by his drawer. “I don’t.”

* * *

Blessed are the meek, Papa says. Your rewards are in the next life, Papa says. Papa breaks his back in the Galar mines. Inherit the earth. Mama spends fifteen hours cleaning the houses of rich ladies. _Her surname may be Rose but she sure doesn’t smell like one!_ Inherit the sea. Papa is angry because he’s useless now. Papa throws a vase at him when he fails his math class. Inherit your suffering.

Burden bridge. Cross to bear. Promised land.

Rose is fifteen when he starts work at the Galar mines. There’s laws against this, but it’s difficult work that few would take, given more options. He is untrained, his mother is growing weaker, and they’re willing to look the other way in exchange for paying him a bit less. He’s soft of heart and poor of will. He doesn’t know how to lift with his knees instead of his back. He learns soon enough.

There’s useless little trinkets that look like stars; garbage with just enough luster to carry some dreams. He takes those home; a little bit of hope to decorate his room. They light up in the dark and make sparks when they touch, but his mother’s Rookidee accidentally ingests one and explodes in a fanfare of red and dust. 

Arceus creates the universe with a thousand arms. In a thousand years, Galar will die a slow and miserable heat death. In ten thousand years, they’ll raze the world and make something new. Something better, maybe.

Rose won’t live to see it. He decides, very quickly, that he can’t afford to wait that long.

* * *

It’s night time. Leon slowly and carefully opens the wooden box. He’s got it down to a science- a ritual. He slips into bed with his noise cancelling headphones; with the curtains drawn. He can’t wear socks or else he’ll sweat, and he has to be sure he used the bathroom beforehand. Once he’s certain that all his physical needs are met, he puts on track six and closes his eyes.

Sometimes he pictures his day, or the person he currently has issues with. Sometimes he pictures himself, small and useless and angry; a molotov cocktail that can never be lit. Most times he pictures the boy, and his slim fingers sliding against metal keys. He always looks so sad when he plays. Maybe he’ll meet him one day. Maybe he can make him less sad.

Can he even do that? He can barely do anything. Being champion’s all he’s good for. Breaking things is all he’s good for.

He unlatches the box while the boy plays track six. The hinge creaks at the weight of its lid. His tears come, sloppy and shameful and stinging. He wants to be a good champion. He wants to be a good brother. He wants to be a good person. He wants to make the boy happy.

In the afternoon, he sends Raihan the video through a link, but his friend dismisses it as “not my thing.” Leon puts his anger in the box, but it takes up so much space he can barely hold it inside. In the evening, Raihan apologizes, and says he was wrong. It sounds better when you’re alone, at night, though. The box lightens.

Years later, he finds out the boy’s name. 

Leon is a coward and Leon is useless. Breaking things is all that Leon’s good for. There’s no way he can make the boy happy.

* * *

For Christmas, Rose gifts his mother a Corviknight, bred for perfection, with flawless, glossy feathers. She thanks him, but he knows it’s not the same. She’s proud and she’s happy and she’s comfortable now, but it’s not the same. His father is buried at the foot of a hill. He wants to say he misses him, but it’s bad to speak ill of the dead, and even worse to lie about them.

Her surname is Rose and her son gifts her a garden. It’s filled with ornamental flowers instead of vegetables. It’s beautiful, she says. It’s too much, though.

He hires gardeners.

For Christmas, Leon doesn’t ask for anything, but mentions a musician he likes. The artist is a somebody-nobody, and Rose dismisses him as a one hit wonder meme that will fade into obscurity in three months. He’s barely older than Leon himself, gangly and unpolished in unprofessionally shot photographs. Soft faced and fragile of heart. Likely talentless, with lyrics fit only for a parent’s fridge.

Rose is proven wrong. He readily admits this.

He gifts Leon the boy’s debut album. It seems to satisfy. He gifts himself the debut album too, and everything else that comes after.

* * *

Somehow, they both end up on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Leon weeps, the kalimba held tightly in his arms. “He found you through me. I’m sorry.”

_Our father, who art in heaven, please stay._

“Thank you,” Piers says, worn down and quiet while he leans against Leon’s side. Maybe that’s the word for it, but somehow it doesn’t feel enough. There’s no word to label this feeling. Not quite love. Not quite fear. Not quite gratitude. “For years, you said? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not exactly something that’s easy to tell.”

Piers doesn’t think he can ever understand, but it’s an honor of the highest order to have someone be sustained by you. He’s usually the one being sustained. Always begging. Always being offered handouts. The only other person who’s relied on him is his sister. 

Leon puts down the kalimba to cradle his face. He looks as though he plans to learn every tired line by rote, until it’s as effortless as his victories to see his face in the dark. Until he can paint a picture of his heart with his eyes closed and his hands tied to a tree. He’s entitled to it, Piers thinks. They’re friends. Are they friends? What are they?

“No, I suppose not.”

The door buzzes. He’s an imperfect bell in a church tower, but he can still ring. 

Zero hour. It’s time.

* * *

Leon is uptight. Leon is too smart for his own good, but sometimes he wants to think his way out of a paper bag when just punching and screaming will do. Leon overthinks things. Twelve years as a champion has made him afraid of being known.

Piers is tired. Piers is too ashamed for his own good, and sometimes he wants to be too useful, to compensate for all the times he’s been useless. Piers overthinks things. Twenty-four years in poverty has made him afraid of himself.

The first thing Raihan does is pack slowpoke tail curry in tupperware- enough for three people. He’s willing to bet that neither of them are thinking much about food right now, and both of them love his cooking. The second thing Raihan does is take three deep breaths, in slow, gradual succession. He closes the door. It’s twenty minutes to Leon’s place by Corvicab.

Raihan isn’t smart and Raihan isn’t tortured. He’s above average in looks and above average in battling ability. He isn’t tormented by hot coals at night wondering that love is or what love feels or what love is supposed to be. Some things are left better undissected. Some things are better off left whole to thrive. You cut open a Butterfree and it no longer flies. You cut open a Cherubi and you only get to taste it once.

Fifteen minutes. The afternoon fades to early evening. The sky blooms, pink and tender with want and longing.

Raihan knows he loves Leon because he can feel it in his gut. It radiates and shivers like how a blossom slowly opens, like a wound gushes freely from the kiss of a knife. He’s nursed this sore for years, the words just behind the cage of his teeth. He carries his love like he carries his burdens; ever present, and sometimes too heavy.

Twelve minutes. The windows mist with the slightest of cold. He drags a finger against the thin film of haze. Sherbet clouds tumble against a foundation of green grass and steel spires.

_I don’t know what love is supposed to be. How can you tell if it’s there?_

Raihan knows he loves Piers because he can feel it in his throat. It’s a stone that’s entirely too heavy, and sometimes he can barely hold it in his presence. He’s held him in his heart for barely a year, but it already feels like forever. He carries his love like how a man in the ocean holds on to the last slivers of wood in a sinking ship; ever fearful, and sobbing at his powerlessness.

Eight minutes. His cab driver hums off key. Piers croons over the radio, all dulcet and drowning in Cherubi wine. He sounds like he’s dying.

Raihan wants to burn. Raihan wants to drown. He knows what love is. He doesn’t have to label it.

Two minutes. He leaves a tip for the driver, and starts to walk.

He knows that he doesn’t understand, and he never will. Dissecting is Leon’s strong suit. Elegant description is for Piers and his songs. Raihan is neither; he’s flesh and blood and hedonistic pursuits. Outside of the pictures, he’s terribly boring; talentless in everything but beauty and boast. So worthless that he can’t even help the people he loves.

He doesn’t understand, but for now, he doesn’t have to. All he has to do is show up. 

Zero hour. He rings the bell, and the door opens. Leon’s eyes are rubbed raw with tears as he motions his friend inside. Piers is perched by the sofa, arms tight in a closed off self-embrace. Leon sits beside him, a hand falling to his shoulder. All eyes are on Raihan. He has to do something.

“I brought food. Hope you lot like day old Slowpoke tail curry.”

Leon laughs. It sounds like birds fleeing. “I’ll get the silverware.”

“He’s always been practical,” Piers adds, smile soft and sincere.

Love is helplessness, Raihan decides, if he needs to put a label. Love is futile. Love is feeling like you’ll never be able to do enough, never be able to give enough, but you’ll pour yourself out into a cup that never fills up, because that’s what they deserve from you. The days when you make a dent into the monster are the best days of your life, even if the dent is just offering them food.

Dinner is reheated slowpoke curry and blackcurrant juice mixed with roseli tea, to be consumed in the living room. Leon pours their glasses. Piers is actually eating, for once. The silence that settles between them is weightless instead of suffocating. Raihan is good at very little things, but the things he is good at are the ones that count. The ones that matter.

“I love both of you,” Raihan says, because he isn’t a coward, at least not when it comes to this. At least, not anymore. All eyes are on him, and he needs to make this count. “It’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, but you both need to know.”

He’s not sure what he expects. He’s quickly engulfed by two pairs of arms. Four hands. Two voices. It reminds him of when he was young, and he and Leon and Sonia would group huddle to plan strategy. He was always terrible at strategy. They would huddle like this in team sports. They would huddle like this in his gym sometimes, before a challenger arrives. They would huddle like this in the couch, in small, haphazard piles.

They love him too. Saints and demons and hungry carrion crows, they love him too. They aren’t saying it with words, but they don’t need to. He feels it in his gut. He feels it in his throat. He feels it floating out of him, like a last breath, like a final song. He feels it settling back inside him, burying deep into his heart.

They end up on the bed, with Raihan sandwiched in the middle. They’re tired and drained, a limp tangle of limbs. Not much is going on, other than the rise and fall of breath, and Leon’s gentle sobbing.

The sun sets, gliding soundlessly to usher in the night. It’s dark outside, with little more than scatters of light, like pin pricks and warnings to guide the way. He’s an imperfect bridge, but he still works, and that’s all that matters.

Zero hour has long passed, and none of them are dead. It’s time to rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here! We're here, we're here! Thanks so much for reading this, for experiencing this with me. There's two chapters left to go. You've all been so kind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves a music video, and hiding unhappiness from people you love.

The alarm rings at 5am. Piers rises to an enclosure of arms around his waist- Leon’s, it seems like. He sits up to assess the damage- still in the ugly sweater, and slept in the damn dress slacks too. No Raihan, but the inviting smell in the kitchen must mean that he’s already awake. He needs to be at Ballonlea by 7:15 to meet up with the film crew, which should be fine with flying taxi. If the emailed schedule still stands, Leon has some sort of shoot for a magazine at 10am, and Raihan has a date with a shoe commercial before noon.

“Wake up, champion,” he says to the grumbling heap below him. “Photoshoot.”

Leon shoves a pillow over his own face to blot out the beginnings of morning light. “Five minutes, _mum._ ”

Piers scruffs him via hoodie string. “Raihan’s making breakfast. You’re waking up, brat.”

“Ugh, fine.” 

Leon complains further, but ultimately complies. He heads to the eating area and Piers follows, but not before picking up the discarded kalimba from the wooden floor. Tune of C, as expected from a no name brand for beginners. Piers plays scales and chords while seated at the dining table, across from the champion. The combined kitchen and eating area is smaller than he had expected, but maybe Leon isn’t home often enough to bother investing in the space. Raihan fries omelets in a borrowed white bathrobe, and hums lightly as the notes play, though it is not quite a melody. Leon watches them both, as though entranced.

“It’s very off-key,” Piers mutters, pausing to take out his phone to pull up a tuning app. “Are you payin’ attention, Leon? Push the tines up to make the note higher and push ‘em down to make the note lower. This is a cheap build, so you’ll probably have to readjust it a lot-”

“-I’m not trying that again,” the champion says with an exaggerated shrug. “I’ve already accepted that being a musician isn’t in the stars for me. You’re welcome to keep it.”

“I have three kalimbas already. This is stayin’ in your house. Hopefully it will tempt you when you’re alone and bored one day.”

Leon grins, implike. “Do you want to bet on it?”

“No. You’re incorrigible.”

“Eggs! Both of you need eggs now,” Raihan interrupts, shoving heaping plates in front of them. “Tomatoes and banana peppers in the filling. If you drown these in ketchup, I’ll consider it both an insult and an invitation to duel.”

Leon eyes the ketchup bottle with a smile. 

“You do not insult Raihan’s cooking in my presence,” Piers orders, taking this far more seriously than he ought to be. He shovels forkfuls of it into his mouth, refusing to break his staredown with the champion.

Raihan bursts into undignified laughter. “He just wants any excuse to battle me. Let him have it, Piers. It’s his thing.”

“Raihan, he’s so cute. You never told me he was this cute,” Leon says with an intentional flutter of lashes. “Gonna go all out to defend your honor and whatnot.”

Piers rolls his eyes. “Holy shit, champion, what are you, twelve?”

“No, just doin’ my best to make you both forget how embarrassing I was last night.” Deadpan delivery. Drizzling ketchup all over his eggs with a cheeky grin. The kitchen table significantly lowers in volume.

“I still say you ought to try the kalimba sometime,” he adds as a thoughtful afternote. “It’s good for beginners.”

There’s an unexpected peck on his cheek. Piers stares down at his fork, feeling warmth rush to his face.

“I’ll consider that. Thanks for tuning it.”

They all agree that Piers should use the shower first, since his duties come sooner. Leon’s toiletries are distinctly masculine in scent; mostly woodsy and citrus notes. Rose has more floral undertones in his sets, while Raihan’s bathroom tends to lean towards sporty, utilitarian abstractions of whatever the fuck “spring” or “breeze” is supposed to translate to the nostrils. It’s fascinating, how they all intentionally curated a catalog of scents to be expected from their bodies.

Piers just buys whatever is on sale that day. Most of the time he doesn’t smell like anything, other than what surroundings and stress will kindly or unkindly provide. Right now, he smells like a rustic orange with hints of sandalwood. If he were ever held at gunpoint and forced to decide what scents he liked the best, Rose’s collection of soaps and perfumes would win by a landslide, but he would rather die than readily admit that.

Leon offers him a change of clothes- apparently they were about the same size when Leon was fifteen, and fifteen year old Leon tried his best to be taken seriously by dressing almost exclusively in button downs and dress pants. _Overcompensation,_ Piers thinks, but a dark blue shirt and dark slacks can almost pass as glam rock, so he has no right to judge that past self. Hopefully no one suspects that anything is amiss.

The Corvicab should arrive in half an hour. He’s in the middle of putting on the other shoe when Leon stops him. Oh. There’s the worried face. Will there be another talk?

“About the Rose thing,” the champion starts, his expression straight out of a propaganda ad for mothers worried about children falling for dope. “Are you allowed to… you know. Stop? You say it’s for Spikemuth repairs, but I don’t think a building costs just one session-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, champ. My bottom definitely doesn’t look like it’s worth a hospital wing.”

“It’s not that,” Leon insists, and the fear and concern is even worse than the banter. “I’m just afraid you’ve signed up for more than what you’ve planned, if the Rose of the Rondelands excursion is any indication. He didn’t offer you anything for that other than below average market.”

Piers narrows his eyes. “How would you know what’s average market?” 

Raihan seats himself between them, planted in the middle of the couch like a dividing wedge. “Rose tried to buy him hookers for his 18th birthday. It was weird. We had a nice chat with them, but Leon didn’t want to go ahead with it. Image and whatnot. Didn’t you see it on the papers then? One of them called him a-”

“-got it. Alright. Moving on.” He ties the other shoe, and tries to calm his breaths. “All it means is that I’m fucked for an indeterminate number of more sessions until he’s bored of me. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“And you’re fine with that?” Raihan asks, the trappings of love folded carefully between his words.

Piers hates it. He’s tricked two people into wasting their time and concern, and one person into wasting a significant portion of his money.

“No, but it’s not exactly new, and it won’t be excruciating. Don’t worry about it.”

“Fuck,” Leon breathes, burying his face into his palms.

It’s silent when the Corvicab arrives to pick Piers up from the apartment balcony. Raihan’s embrace is like a pillow over a sleeping mouth, and Leon holds him like a vice. 

He waves goodbye. It seems so final.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**_Raihan has created chat: Three’s Company_ **

**Raihan:** roll call. How’s everyone doing?

 **Leon:** awful food, awful buffet, scratchy outfits. Shoddy art direction, this is some bastard mishmash of post apocalyptic dust bowls and ugly neon paint. You’d love it Raihan

 **Raihan:** that does sound like my thing

 **Leon:** You doing ok, Piers?

 **Piers:** We’re shooting near the edge of Glimwood Tangle and i honestly dont think that the lead set director is human

 **Piers:** he’s some rando from Unova who’s really good at shooting in natural environments but i swear to Arceus those Hatterines are talking to him

 **Leon:** is he cute

 **Piers:** uh

_Piers has sent attachment Neil-Harmon-imdb-125gsag.jpg_

**Leon:** I want that twink obliterated

 **Raihan:** Another snapback aficionado I see

 **Piers:** Are the shoes they’re advertising any good

 **Raihan:** they don’t break easily and they’re affordable but personally? Hideous. 

**Piers:** two out of three mate

  
  
  


Their current budget is higher than all his previous videos combined. Having Nessa as a co-star has its benefits, with the notable setback of less creative control. Whatever means to an end- a flashy music video equals more sales, and the music can stay intact. Stylists dye his hair white for the shoot and it clashes with his aesthetic, but at least they’re not touching his lyrics. He’s been conned into wearing an artful scatter of iridescence and dark paint, sure, and he’s spending the entire morning half submerged in a man-made lake while fog machines rob him of peripheral vision, but the music gets to stay the same.

“You’re the bastard union of an unknown legendary and a human man,” weird Unova Neil says in an airy tenor while pinning leaves onto his hair. “You’ve spent your whole life in seclusion. Your leading lady has intruded into your lake in exchange for a wish.”

Of course it’s a human man. Nessa holds back her snickering. She’s a professional.

“What did she wish for?” Piers asks, because he ought to be a professional too.

“You don’t know. Human tongue is foreign to you.” Neil rearranges a pile of rocks until he is satisfied. “You think you love her, but until you learn to understand, there’s no way she’s getting her wish.”

No easy answers. Piers, at the very least, respects that sort of artistic integrity. Morning to noon has shoots with a child actress, beaming and lovely in a pink dress. Nessa is the character as an adult, who returns years later to forcibly remove him out of his now filthy and scum-ridden body of water. Tomorrow’s shoot involves being fed green apples while confined to a bathtub. Very female gazey, according to Nessa. Women like stupid, useless men. Who knew.

They break for lunch, and Piers wraps himself in a provided robe and sweatpants. The location has better than average catering, or maybe exhaustion just makes food taste better. He can’t be bothered to tell the difference. Unova Neil is a charming, if slightly awkward conversationalist, and almost certainly inhuman, but Piers can’t exactly hold that against him. Given the choice, he wouldn’t want to be human either.

A nondescript assistant interrupts their chat to pull Piers to the side. She’s young and hesitant, and he tries to relax his posture in hopes to lessen her anxiety.

“Mister Piers, sir, your lodgings have been upgraded for the week.”

“What? I got an Airbnb. That doesn’t make sense.”

She shoves a set of keys and a small black envelope into his palms, before scurrying away. The paper is decorated with now familiar red filigree cursive. Inside is an address, and Rose’s signature. Piers immediately thinks of Leon, head held in his hands. 

No need to exacerbate that. Neither of them have to know.

The day’s remainder passes like a series of blurred photographs. It’s panic, or rote, or resignation. Neil and Nessa both give him separate hugs goodbye. Piers barely registers their touch.

Keys, right. His housing for the week is a renovated Victorian in austere navy blue; an entire house within walking distance from the shooting site. Rose probably brought staff. How much does it cost to rent this thing? He’s rich enough to consider this a quaint getaway from the city hustle and bustle. Piers sighs, unlocks the door, and steps inside.

Its interior is old world rich- hardwood floors, ornate furnishings. Coat hangers and brass embellishments. Funny paintings of stiff dead people. Rose taps away at his laptop in the sitting room, legs over a leather ottoman. He raises his head to smile at Piers, and motions a hand to usher him closer. Piers, like a strung kite, allows himself to be led.

“Your hair! That’s new. It’s lovely on you.” 

“It’s for the music video,” Piers says as he deposits himself onto a stiff green love-seat.

His movements are automatic, ever mindful of intimate spaces. Relax your posture for nervous intern. Defensive eating when Milo wants to steal a chip off his plate. Open flowers. Closed flowers. Sit down or fold smaller when Rose chooses to stand.

He’s fascinated by the shock of soft, tumbling white. Rose runs fingers through its cascades, while Piers fixes his gaze at the red knot of his tie. The crew did a good job, he will admit- Steena extract whatever, non damaging shitfuck. It hasn’t fried his hair the way a home dye job does. The foreign texture makes him feel like a stranger in his own body- too much like a veil over his shoulders, or a funeral shroud.

Rose leans in for a kiss. Piers dutifully parts his mouth.

Best not to ask for anything anymore- no adding debts to his ledger. The chairman kisses like he’s in love, like Narcissus loves a reflective surface. There’s fingers ghosting over the base of his neck, and he mirrors it with an anxious palm on his benefactor’s shoulder. It’s pantomime. It’s mimicry. Did the Victorians do it like this? Enough playing house and playing at love, and hopefully you’ll kindle a fire by mistake.

Maybe the formula works. He doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t like it either, but it’s easy to tolerate.

They part bodies. Piers palms the back of his neck; a nervous tick. 

“Rose, there isn’t much takeout in Ballonlea.”

“That’s what the cooking staff is for.” Of course he brought staff. Rose takes his hand. “I’ll show you the room you’ll use for the week.”

Impromptu tour of the little mansion. Long, severe dining table, and separate cooking area. Floor zero was built for servants, currently for staff- different but the same. Wooden stairs with framed, monochrome strangers on the side of the wall as they rise. Master bedroom, for Rose. Bedroom adjacent for Piers, though he’ll come when he’s called. Two bathrooms, both modern. Extra rooms for all manners of miscellany. It feels too final, even though it’s only for a week.

“Thank you, sir,” Piers says on reflex as Rose makes quick work of Leon’s buttons. “This is a bit excessive.”

“I needed to get out of the city, and it happened to line up with our schedule.”

His mouth leaves red marks on his clavicles. Piers digs for purchase in the silk of his blouse. It’s far from detestable. It’s better. It’s worse.

Nessa linked him an article about arranged marriages when they were younger. It was excess from a research paper Sonia wrote, and interesting enough to pass to friends. First person accounts over the course of seven years. Wax poetic dissertations. Ad nauseum. “The west starts things hot and leaves things to cool to lukewarm temperature. We start our marriages cold, and gradually heat it up.” They all had a good laugh at that, back then.

 _Marriages aren’t day old leftovers,_ Piers thinks as Rose enters him while he lays on his back. He shudders, and closes his eyes. Datura intoxication. Dried flowers, hung upside down. Potpourri. Desiccated red-brown petal stains. It hurts. He’s not relaxed enough for this. He doesn’t complain; the dry heaves pass enough as moaning. No need to make it worse.

His eyes water. Unfortunate. He thinks of Leon at breakfast, and blinks the weakness away. Their orgasms feel like a footnote. Piers almost laughs.

“No thorns left on your stem, my dear?” Rose holds him close. He feels like a trophy, or a bloom on a windowsill, arching for the last vestiges of the sun.

“Don’t need any, where I’m off to.”

Juniperus rigida, all prickles. Lily of the valley. Musk rose. Sampaguita, Bea’s favorite. Dandelion. Orange blossom. Tiger lily-

“I quite like them, so no need to pull them out for my sake.” 

They’re idle on the bed. Staff footsteps and the clink of pots and pans drum dully in the lower floors. Tall windows spill forth nothing but dark and the barest hint of mushroom glow. Piers curls smaller. Mean in a fun way. Mean in a toothless way. Garbage, all of it.

“That’s flattering, sir, but I did it for me.”

Rose sits upright. He turns to the pitch rectangle sliver of evening sky, away from Piers.

“Little burial lily. Little mourner.” It feels like mockery, but delivered straight. Guileless and solemn, like pet names for a tiny, serious dog. There’s a hand on his forehead. “Maybe in time, you’ll grow fonder of me, and what I am willing to offer you.”

“I don’t hate this,” Piers says carefully, hedging his bets. “I don’t hate you.”

It’s true. He doesn’t hate him. He hates that he doesn’t hate him. He hates that he’s thankful for any of this, for a modicum of decency and sex that doesn’t hurt, most of the time. It’s still a cage, even if it is a pretty one. It’s a series of pretty cages, paraded in a line for him to get in and out of, between irregular spaces of freedom.

Is this his life now? There’s worse things, he gathers. He allows the touch.

“Bathe and be dressed for dinner,” Rose orders, though it’s couched as a strong suggestion. “Your clothes are on the bedside table.”

He does as he’s told. It’s not like it’s anything new. The tub is porcelain and four clawed, with brass furnishings. There’s liquid soap in a glass decanter and shampoo, and conditioner for his hair, stargazer lily scented. What is even a stargazer lily? Is that what Piers is now? Is that what Rose wants him to be? His body isn’t his and neither is his hair. He still has his voice. Arceus, he still has his voice.

The clothes are white. A bit on the nose, there. High collar, with delicate buttons. Matching pants, slim fit. Embroidered slippers. He looks like an expensive courtesan and not a hooker you get off the street, but a whore dressed up and a whore dressed down is still a whore at the end of the day.

  
  
  


**Raihan:** roll call. Hanging in there?

 **Leon:** so many costume changes. Dust everywhere. Did you get free shoes?

 **Raihan:** yes but I’m donating those. They’re fashionably ugly but it’s not my thing

 **Raihan:** Piers?

 **Piers:** shoot went fine. Tired. Heading to bed early. Thanks for today and yesterday, both of you

 **Leon:** You are so cute. So mushy. You’re never this mushy rai

 **Raihan:** text me if you need anything Piers

 **Leon:** me too, i mean it

 **Piers:** sure

  
  
  


If he were Raihan, he would have taken pictures of the food. Some kind of trussed up dead bird. Delicate vegetables. Overpriced silverware on dark wood. He sits where his plate is assigned, diagonal from Rose at the head of the table. His ancestors were servants of Galar, stripped of resources and exotic beasts of burden. This is just recompense.

 _No,_ Marnie howls. _You had no hand in making this._

“What’s the video about?” Rose asks, carving open pale flesh with his knife.

“Reinvented fairy tale,” Piers mumbles, rehearsed. “Boy meets girl for easy digestibility. It’s for the new album. I sing entirely in gibberish.”

“Gibberish?”

“In Kalos, there’s _verlan_ ,” he says, self conscious. “You switch the syllable order. It’s usually limited to one or two words per sentence, but for this, I wrote all the lyrics in reverse.”

“Can you give me an example?” Ugh. He’s smiling. It’s the terrible adult cousin of explaining to your not-dad what you did for school.

“Rose becomes _Esor_ , or _Sero._ Love becomes _Velo._ ” He’s eaten, what, two peas and a baby carrot? This setup does wonders for dieting.

“How does it sound?”

“I learned to play the guqin for it,” Piers offers, cutting deep and ragged into the leg of the dead animal. “With enough finagling, you can make any instrument suit your intended purpose.”

 _Like people,_ neither of them say, but both of them acknowledge.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


His mother’s favorite proverb: don’t kill with poison when sweets will do. Her grandmother, and her mother before it, too. They stayed poor regardless, because no amount of flattery and kind words can amass wealth when slung at such a low starting point. Rose barely reached escape velocity himself; a fate drawn by chance and a dead pet bird.

There’s plenty of sweets to offer, but he doesn’t want Piers to die.

Rose wears the bluff like three children in a suit. It’s ill fitting and mostly shapeless, but in some moments it can almost pass as real. The way his eyes dart in shame from a kiss on the hand. His easy revulsion at the barest of excesses. The strange habit of curling close to Rose to chase warmth, with little regard as to where the heat comes from. It’s nowhere near love, and it’s barely above tolerance, but the gratefulness is genuine, if nothing else.

It’s early evening in the master bedroom. Piers has his outstretched arm as a pillow, nude under the sheets, and is singing to him one of his new songs upon request, his voice light and weightless in the cold air. What a contrast, to the initial meeting: he was a rusty pocket knife back then, unsheathed and held close to the heart in warning. Today, he’s more like a trinket; a pretty array of shimmering tines, to be played by skilled hands.

He doesn’t hate it, Piers said yesterday, and appears true to his word. If he hated it, his voice would be shaking.

Rose is no stranger to artifice as survival. Once upon a time, the mines offered up much of the same. It’s a service that wears down the body, intimately or distantly. In an ideal world, this wouldn’t hurt Piers at all, but for now, he’ll settle for it not killing him.

“Why all this,” the younger man says. He sounds like a day lily attempting to form words, aching for light in a dark room. “You have a lot of choices. Could pick a pop star’s fat arse. Someone cute. Maybe that one tosser with the curly hair and that terrible lo-fi sound.”

Rose laughs, and grasps his palm. Slim fingers fold against his own, from habit rather than affection. One day maybe. Could be any span of time from now. Could be never, but it doesn’t hurt to chase it.

“You’re saying I have poor taste?”

“I’m saying,” Piers starts, and his sliver of a smile is almost enough to make up for the hesitance, “You plucked a drowned rat out of a lake, when you could have eaten steak.”

“Isn’t that the whole premise of the video you’re shooting?”

“That drowned _fish_ is the bastard son of a Legendary Pokemon and a human man. However that configuration works out. It’s not the same.”

“There’s your thorns, love.”

“Ribbed for pleasure,” Piers spits, but it lacks fire. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Rose is in no hurry to drown or burn, but Piers is all too good at selling such a garish premise. He considers a number of truthful and untruthful answers. There’s his preference for delicate bodies, slim and light and a stark departure from his own. There’s honest to Arceus musical ability, and Rose would prefer a mate with mass rolling in between their head as well as their legs. There’s proximity and circumstance. There’s willingness to accept offerings. There’s surprise and eagerness at even small kindnesses- it must have been a rare commodity when Piers was young, and Rose has more than enough in surplus.

He settles on safe ground. “I don’t care if you think you’re a rat. I still like you.”

Piers nods, and offers nothing else. He sinks into the bed, and wraps his arms around him, silenced and deferential.

* * *

Saturday is the final day of the shoot, and in the evening, Rose gives him a ring. It’s two slim silver bands with a winding grip on a pearl, and it matches the one on Rose's ear. He clearly had an aesthetic adjacent when picking it out, and Piers is. Grateful? Overwhelmed? Sad and scared and frozen in place? Likely all of those things.

Kantonian cultured Akoya pearl. Corrosion resistant titanium. This damn trinket will stay pretty long after the both of them rot.

“Thank you,” Piers says, because that’s what he’s supposed to say. “It’s beautiful.”

It is. He isn’t lying. It’s unusual enough that it wouldn’t look out of place with what he usually wears, and Rose likely expects it on his finger. Maybe Piers should shop for three more rings, so it can have three decoy friends. He can do that Sunday afternoon. Do they still have the cuddle thing on Sunday? Was that rescheduled? They can make it an outing-

“Is there something I can do to make you happier?” Rose asks, with the implication of _happier with this._ Maybe. Maybe there is no implication at all, and Rose is just concerned for his overall well being. Maybe Cherubis don’t die after their pods are mechanically sloughed off when processing wine.

“You’re already giving me way too much,” Piers says, and hedges his safety on a careful truth. “I’m not used to it, is all.”

Bastard listens to all of his songs and thinks he fucking knows him. Thinks he’s in love.

_Like Leon?_

_No. No no no no not like Leon._

_It’s the same. It’s different. It’s the same._

Leon can’t shoot him dead in the street and get away with it if he spurns his advances. Leon is an annoying brat who turns into a mashed potato at night. Piers is inoculated enough to find his weird ticks charming. Leon is close to his age. Piers actually finds Leon agreeable company.

_Really? That’s all? You deserve this, then. This is the bed you’ve made._

“I um,” Piers starts, stumbling at attempted syllables. “I’m surprised you want me happy at all. I’m grateful, is what I mean. Thank you.”

“Darling,” Rose says, gentle and pitying and as he kisses him.

  
  


* * *

It’s two months until challenger season. Their excursions are too easy to conceal from his friends.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s challenger season. Their excursions are too easy to conceal from his boyfriends.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Rose goes to prison. Leon loses to a ten year old, and spends two weeks in the hospital from his tussle with a legendary and subsequent overexertion in failing to defend his champion title. His bedside table overflows with flowers and quiet regret. Piers dedicates a song to him. He seems a lot happier at the Battle Tower gig. Raihan, bless his heart, is very wrong about the old shoes. Piers wears them when he visits sometimes, just to annoy him. The video is set to come out in a few weeks, and Nessa and Piers have both kept mum about it, to surprise their friends.

The ring weighs heavy on his finger, concealed by his glove. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If some of the wording looks familiar, it's because a good portion of this chapter is a mirror of chapter 4. 
> 
> EDIT: If it is not explicit enough in text (and even so I'll spell it out anyway, Kojima style), Piers and Rose's relationship is not okay. This is not a relationship to aspire to have. Unhealthy dynamics aren't always loud and explicit; sometimes they're just wealth disparity and dynamics that emotionally harm, or a difference in power that hurts one party, or an inability to leave, or pretending to be happy even when you want to run. 
> 
> Thank you so much, and please take care of yourselves.
> 
> Extra: [Electronic Guqin + Handpan Arrangement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fT2y9xmgNIY) Played very differently than how one would traditionally play a guqin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story ends with how the story starts: with a package.

Piers is coming over for dinner, and Leon’s natural instinct is to fuss over his lodgings and make it look more lived in. He plucks a book off the shelf to lay it on the coffee table, and drapes a blanket at the armrest. All the time at battle tower, and he’s rarely home except to fall unconscious. Should he make dinner or order out? It shouldn’t matter, but it should. None of this matters, but it does.

“I need to get to know you better. This doesn’t work out if Raihan’s the only thing tying us.”

Apparently this began as an itemized list of likes, preferences, and dislikes, to be swapped and shared between the three of them. He takes it almost too seriously, and Leon is almost... flattered? Relationships aren’t binding contracts, if the divorce rate is any indication. Their meetings and role calls border on efficient, with the gentle insistence that problems be worked out in the open, instead of left to fester like a sore.

Leon can’t knock what works, at least not out loud. It’s binding but not constricting. It’s love by numbers. He loves numbers, but this isn’t the same.

Piers never mentions Rose. He fussed in the hospital after Leon lost his title and congratulated him on the new Tower, but Rose left the narrative with a gaping hole; a one word summation of whatever it was they had that they hid. Whatever it was that kindled and smothered; a significant dusting of ash that none of them have yet to address.

It is a non-issue issue. Piers functions well otherwise, and the best Leon can do is wait until he’s ready. He’ll wait until he’s ready, or he’ll wait until he falls apart and he has to go pick him up. Either one works.

When he arrives at the door, Leon has a heaping pot of Apple Curry to divide between two teams and two people. Piers kisses him on the cheek, and their pokemon mill around in Leon’s over-large living room. Leon thinks they all got along faster than the three of them did, but that’s not something he’d readily admit unless his life were threatened.

Scrafty deposits itself between its trainer’s legs in a lazy nap while Leon successfully manages a spot next to Piers, kalimba in hand. It’s taken months, but the godforsaken Obstagoon no longer shoves his body as a physical barrier between them whenever Piers takes him out. His guest smiles, proud and lacking in malice, which is good because whatever Leon plays now is going to be entirely deserving in the latter.

“Gonna bore you and your team to death with twinkle twinkle. This is what you signed up for, remember that,” Leon says with an exaggerated groan. 

Piers, undeterred, sidles closer, leaning against his shoulder. “Excellent choice. It doubles as A B C, so you can play it to small children.”

“What am I, a second rate performer who does birthday parties?” 

“Depends. You like birthday parties?” Piers twirls a finger on a stray lock, curling against two of four rings. 

Leon never asked about those, either. Four rings make for one impromptu brass knuckle. Sonia used to wear two on each hand and assemble them for their true purpose at night, on her way home from grad school. Under all that hair, Piers is actually a very small man. Who knows what those are for.

“No. It’s a reminder that you’re closer to death’s door.”

He thinks of Piers knocking before entering the other side. 

“Then stop stalling, love.”

Twinkle twinkle is a miserable affair, with a poorly paced rhythm and clumsy fingers. Their pokemon don’t seem to mind, and neither does Piers, who smiles in approval while watching the ugly thrum of his index. It’s like the melody is not a total sham, even though Leon knows better. He’s seen enough performers on the tube to know how good it can sound. He’s seen Piers play this same broken box with the speed of texters on cocaine. It’s complete shit.

Complete shit. Appeases Piers. Tomato, tom-ahto.

“No encores,” Leon quotes with a laugh, and pulls him closer.

“It’s good so far,” Piers notes, and knocks on the wood twice with a knuckle. “You learn quickly.”

“It’s rubbish.”

Oh no. Not that serious face. It’s a cute face, but it’s always accompanied by something soggy. 

“Rubbish is still better than nothing,” he says, the words a stern warning of someone who’s had nothing and wishes they had rubbish. “I play 40 instruments and 30 of them I play below mediocre, but they still can bill me as the bloke who plays 40 instruments.”

“Is that the trick?” Leon says with a grin, closer and closer until they’re touching foreheads. “I can’t tell the difference between great, mediocre, and less than mediocre, from how you make those things sound.”

“Correct,” Piers affirms, fingers a lazy lock behind Leon’s head. “If it sounds great to everyone else, there’s no need to correct them.”

His mind wanders back to the rings. His mind screams to correct him, but it sounds better not to. They’re two seconds away from a good snog, and Piers is fine, and Leon is fine, and Raihan is fine, and there’s nothing wrong. Rose is in jail and none of them have unpacked what has happened and what is still sort of happening, but there’s no need to correct any of this.

Their lips lock.

_ Another time, _ Leon swears, but shoves the reminder further and further away.

* * *

It’s a restaurant with rounded tables. It matters slightly less what they serve, as rounded or otherwise unorthodox seating arrangements have been their main priority since this affair started. Raihan is fine with garbage food as long as it holds up aesthetically, Leon orders the least calories no matter what, and Piers has run the gamut of terrible options throughout his life, so anything is fine.

They have a roster of 15 qualifying restaurants for Motostoke, and 10 in Wyndon. Spikemuth is not on the menu, unless they take out the rounded or unusual tables modifier, which raises the edible food menu by a whopping count of 4. They’ve worn down too many Kantonian restaurants that all seem to order their furnishings from the same company, so right now it’s Spicy Hoenn barbecue- the same one the group all piled into, last off season. 

“I remember that day because Milo almost choked on some mild poultry,” Raihan says while drowning his meat in mirin. “Not my proudest laugh. What’s the nicest way to call someone out? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what Kabu did.”

“Oh yeah, that. I’d be embarrassed too, if my mum had to hop in to defend my honor,” Leon adds with a nod. 

Piers is still wearing the ring. Why is he still wearing the ring? Why didn’t he tell them about the ring? Why didn’t he tell them anything? Sure, it would have been burdensome to have them try and stop any of it, and he wasn’t in any danger. It was easy enough to handle on his own, and Rose is in jail, and none of it matters anymore.

None of it matters. It’s still on his finger.

“I um,” he starts, feeling as though he’s interrupting. Normal feelings. Easy. “I’m performing at the Muskrose Hall in Wyndon next month. Electric guqin. Not my usual gig but the last album attracted a lot of… those people.”

“Whoa, that’s big! Congrats!” Raihan pats him on the back. “Too many bluebloods for your taste, I recon?”

“It’s cuz you played it with a violin bow,” Leon elucidates, and proceeds to put on the stuffiest affectation he can muster. “The music video helped. High concept, ignorant art Basquiat shit. I read the reviews. If someone describes you as ‘eldritch’ you’re going to get them crawling out of the woodwork.”

_ “Eldritch?” _ Pier balks. “What should I do? _ Should _ I do something?”

Raihan motions to soothe him, palms over shoulders. “All it means is that you might do more concert halls. You’re doing that fashion campaign with Nessa, too. What makes this any different?”

Arceus, he still has his voice. His voice sometimes sounds like a guqin string, taut, and screaming a foreign sound. His voice is sometimes caught in his throat, red with his crime of omission. His voice is every I love you, too tacky or too early in the relationship to say out loud. His voice knows this isn’t different, that it’s the same, but it’s different. There’s straws that break a camel’s back, and straws that are consumed to make the camel stronger, but it takes time to tell which is which.

Is it different? Does he have time? 

Piers reaches for his ring finger, and slowly, but deliberately pulls out the pearl ring. Two angry red marks sting at its absence; raw pink stripes on the base of the digit. For a while, he rationalized it as a reminder; a token of mistakes to not repeat, but he kept making mistakes, so the point wore its welcome quickly. It stayed on in encounters with Rose, and stayed off in his absence. It did its job to remind, but the message has blurred around the edges, like handwriting mashes together while soaked in water.

“I need to talk about something, after dinner,” he says, because he still has his voice. It’s been half a year since this all started. The ring is on the dessert plate with the cookies, and for a moment Piers can imagine it as something cheaper than it is, like something he pulled out of a coin machine out of novelty.

Leon takes the offending hand, and kisses the mark. 

“We’re both free tonight,” Raihan says, and squeezes his arm. “My place.”

* * *

They both cried when Piers framed it as cheating. He had a long apology lined up and everything. A nuisance, he rationalized. The sex wasn’t violent anyway. It was sometimes- often uncomfortable, but had just enough bouts of tenderness to leave him questioning. Half dalliance, half inconvenience- both parts too shameful to bother bringing up.

“I didn’t want to waste your time,” he says, feeling like a white gash in the dark, while arms hold him to prevent further bleeding.

He tells the story in delicate and indelicate words. It feels like bleeding, in drips and drops, with spasms of beheaded gushing. He thinks he’s being dramatic, so he tries to tone it down, to describe factually and clinically. Leon is wailing as hard as- as hard as the day of the ditched charity event. Piers smiles, and knows that thanking him for his tears would be unkind. It’s a fine sort of gift; the finest he’s been given, he thinks.

Better than the ring. But the ring’s what brought it out, so it’s good for something.

It was almost like love, and that’s what made it hard. It wore love’s gown and spoke love’s language. Maybe if he waited longer, it would have resembled it so much, that neither of them would have corrected it. It would have been a close enough doppelganger to make him happy.

“It was beautiful, sometimes. It was cold, too. It wasn’t ugly at all. I think, because it wasn’t ugly, that I wasn’t entirely convinced.”

Leon wipes the gunk from his nose. Piers almost wants to kiss him on the mouth to prove a point. Raihan sighs into his neck, and leaves wetness behind.

“It was only ugly once,” Piers says, and raises his palm in the air to examine it. The mark has faded, pale blush with the slightest of itch. “I went to visit him in prison to return it. He said he loved me. Rose is an ugly crier, let me tell you. He said I could keep it, so I did.”

“Why don’t you sell it?” Raihan asks, his breath like a threat and a promise. “Unless it means something to you.”

There’s a kiss at his neck, and a kiss on his palm; a wind of bodies and the dark blanket of evening. 

“You don’t have to,” Leon says. His hands are cold and clammy, but heat up quickly on contact. “We won’t think less of you. I won’t lie. I really want to give that guy a good thrashing, but from what you told me he was probably really convinced that he loved you.”

“But was it love?” Piers doesn’t know why he’s asking- it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t reciprocated. It was an arrangement that started with coercion, and even though it grew kinder with time, he still didn’t want to be there. He still would have had trouble if he left.

“He said he loved me too, once,” Leon confesses, the knowledge like an open jewel box shattering on the ground. “Not in that way, but it meant something to him. You meant something to him. But just because you meant something to him, doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

“He didn’t- he didn’t intend to hurt me,” Piers struggles with the words, and swears he’s getting delusional, eyes tired and red with new tears. “He didn’t actually hurt me. I’m just being overdramatic- I’m just-”

The rest doesn’t come. He doesn’t want to yank anymore unearned wails from them. Maybe he’s just baffled and terrified at the prospect of being cared for. Caring has terms, after all, and the only difference between Rose’s terms and their terms is that these terms are preferable. It doesn’t matter.

But it does. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

It wore love’s dress and spoke love’s language, but it was cold and beautiful and lacked love’s ugliness. He thinks of Leon annoying him with reminders to stay hydrated, and Raihan’s growing collection of tupperware in his closet, all of which once contained home-cooked food. Maybe if given time, Rose would have showed some untidiness, too.

But Rose is in jail, and Piers doesn’t have the time to wait, and has a little more dignity to boot. Concert hall. Music video. Guqin. Wear the clothes of a rich man and- and eventually-

* * *

A package comes to his doorstep, unexpected. It is sturdy and discreet; slightly larger and thicker than packages for books, and the utilitarian brown of most parcels that come by mail. His name and address are marked with a sticker, and the return address is unfamiliar and without a name he knows.

It is a red tie, and its accompanying pin, with a long letter, in university rule white, with blue ink.

Piers breathes in, then out. It’s easier now. He’s on his third concert tour. This isn’t going to hurt him anymore. The ring is out of sight and safely in a jewelry box, with the rest of his dead mother’s things. They’ll surely have stories to exchange, if trinkets could speak.

The letter is an apology. Part apology, part love letter. It cuts his heart with surgical efficiency; a stark contrast to how Rose used to hurt him; in spurts and interruptions, in between irregular displays of tenderness.

_ If it holds enough space, does it need a reflection? _

He folds it up and puts it in the box. He’ll tell the two about this later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient. I deliberated on this chapter for a while, because while I knew how the story ended, I didn't know how to settle the tone. I wanted it to be exuberantly happy for a while, which is why it took so long to write, because I have not been exuberantly happy and it's difficult to replicate something you don't have inside you.
> 
> In the end I settled for something that hopefully works. Sometimes happy endings is just being able to tell people when you're hurting. Sometimes it leads to happier times in the future, and that's really all everyone hopes for.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading.


End file.
